Stargazing
by Southern Sunshine
Summary: PHOENIX II/BEN BARRETT COLLAB. While confined to his home for the summer, 15-year old Stan Marsh becomes fascinated with a new boy next door. Will the new kid ever notice him? Will Stan go to jail for a crime he swears he didn't commit? AU. SLASH. Kyan.
1. The Worst Summer Ever

**A Note From Ben: Well, uh, yet another one. What does this make? Seven? Yeah, I think it does! Well, in my defense, this is on a joint account so it doesn't count against me at all, so there! Ha ha. This one actually came about due to watching **_**Disturbia**_** for the first time. I looked at that and went "Hmm, now that's an interesting idea". When I presented it to P2, he seemed really excited about it and so we decided to go ahead and write it out, despite the fact that he's busy with stuff, and I really, REALLY shouldn't be making any more new stories. I hope you enjoy it, though. We worked really hard on this. :)**

* * *

**From the Desk of "P2": Sup, y'all? Ben said most of what needs to be said about this, excepting the fact that it's not going to be really anything like **_**Disturbia**_**. Just the initial concept, and the fact that our beloved protagonist is in a bit of trouble with the law, as you'll see further down here. Oh, and when Ben says I'm busy with "stuff"... yes, that includes PtD. I'm hoping to put a new one up on 4/20. Enjoy the read!  
**

* * *

**Disclaimer**  
Neither of us own South Park or seek to profit from this imaginative act. Any subsequent violation of U.S. or International laws is not intentional and should not be reported to the otherwise-appropriate agencies. Kthxbai.**  
**

* * *

**Stargazing**  
written by Phoenix II and Ben Barrett

**Chapter One - The Worst Summer Ever  
**Fifteen-year old Stan Marsh sat in his bedroom, looking unhappily out his window. Thus far, this was turning out to be a shitty ass summer for him. It wasn't bad enough that his damn leg had to be in this fucking cast, or that he was confined to his house like a prisoner. No, no. The doctor had to make the God damned thing as tight as he possibly could, making it impossible for him to reach the itch on his calf that had been plaguing him for the last three days.

_Just one scratch, that's all I'm asking for God. Just let me get rid of this fucking itch._

Aside from the itching, the worst part of the whole thing absolutely _had_ to be the fact that as long as he was in this cast, he couldn't board. And if there was one thing Stan loved, it was boarding. Skate, surf, snow, it was all the same to him, pretty much as long as it was something he could do something stupid on. And he _had_ done something stupid this time. He'd been grinding down a railing he'd used thousands of times for the same purpose, but this time while in the air, he'd attempted a kickflip that had sent his board hurtling away from him and himself to the ground, where he immediately took note that his leg was most definitely broken.

Cartman had rolled his fat ass on the ground with laughter as he'd screamed with pain, commenting that "this is what you get for being a gay skaterfag, Stan," while Stan cursed him, his mother, and the skateboard maker and yelled at him to call an ambulance. Wendy, who was a great friend, even if he wasn't really interested in her anymore, had kicked Cartman in the ribs and dialed 911 on her cell. In the hospital, the doctor had told him while setting the bone that he was lucky he'd broken just the one bone, the way he landed. Then, he proceeded to snap the thing back into place, and no amount of luck in the world could keep Stan from screaming again and letting loose with a profanity that Priest Maxi would have fainted dead away on hearing, and would have forced Stan into 155 Hail Mary's followed by 92 Our Father's and 34 complete recitations of the Rosary upon awakening.

_Son of a bitch didn't even warn me he was gonna do it. He just fucking did it._

He cast these thoughts aside as quickly as they'd come. He didn't want to focus on any of that anymore because it just made him hurt all over again. He decided the best way to take his mind off of his broken bone and that infernal itching would be to pour all of his attention into his beloved telescope. It was his pride and joy, the one thing that he treasured above everything else he owned, including the Flaming Fart Terrance and Phillip dolls that he'd managed to obtain before they were recalled.

Even his XBOX and his collection of skateboarding videogames couldn't compare to how much he treasured the telescope. His dad had bought it for him a couple of years ago, after Stan had been assigned to do a report for his seventh-grade science class on Saturn. Since then, any time he was bored or anxious or anything of the sort at night, he took it outside, set up his biped, and lay on the grass, staring up into the heavens. Of course, during the daytime, he used it for other activities. One of those activities, especially as of late, was spying on his neighbors.

Stan knew this wasn't the most legal thing to be doing, but he was a bored teenager with nothing better to do. This afternoon, he decided to take a peek down by Craig's house. Stan did not like Craig. In fact, he hated Craig more than he hated his big sister, who made no secret of her loathing of him. Shelley, thank God, was off in Montana this summer, probably fucking the brains out of her Arabic boyfriend. Stan had no idea how an Arabic family wound up in Montana, of all places, but at least Shelley wasn't home alternating between beating him up and complaining about how Mom and Dad wouldn't give her their credit cards to spend at the mall.

Craig, today, had set up his wooden skateramp in his driveway and was alternating between executing 360 degree kickturns and falling on his overly-padded ass. Craig was getting slightly better, and another source of distress to Stan was the fact that by the time his leg was fully healed, Craig would probably be able to skate rings around him, which would mean Craig would be hanging with all the cool kids, while Stan had to settle for the misfits like the fatass Cartman, the poor kid Kenny, the other fat kid Clyde, and the ever-caffeinated Tweek. This, to Stan, would be Hell. He wanted the cast off, and he wanted to be back practicing his moves out in the summer sunshine, instead of virtually on Tony Hawk Underground. There's only so many times a guy can skate across St. Petersburg while clutching the back of a car before it just gets boring.

Movement off to the side caught Stan's eye and he turned his attention and telescope there. Fuck Craig, anyway. He was an asshole who delighted in riding by Stan's house as slow as he could until someone noticed him, then flipping the bird and screaming insults. Watching a douche like that for too long would only make him want to grind his teeth in anger, and the last thing he needed on top of his broken leg and all the other drama in his life was an angry dentist.

_He'd probably put me in headgear like Shelley's just out of spite, the bastard._

He saw someone taking down the FOR SALE sign on the front lawn of the house next door and putting up a SOLD sign in its place. Nothing too interesting about that, really. Knowing South Park (and his luck) it would wind up being some ninety-year old lesbian couple or something. He'd be looking around one night with his telescope and accidentally swoop across their bedroom window and there they'd be, scissoring their saggy, wrinkled bodies together. Oh, God, that was a revolting thought.

_I'd never get someone cool next door that I could relate to. I'd get the lesbian grandmas or another douchebag like Craig. The way this summer is going, a friend is just too much to ask for._

His cell phone went off suddenly and he backed up from his telescope to have a look. The LED screen said "MOM", the last person in the world he really wanted to talk to, aside from Craig. She always had something unpleasant for him to do, or something she needed him to do to get ready for dinner before she came home to cook it. Usually involving an ingrediant she either forgot to take out of the fridge to de-thaw, or forgot to buy entirely, they were happening far too frequently as of late for Stan's liking.

With a sigh, he flipped it open and answered it.

"Yeah mom?"

"Stanley, honey, I need you to do something for me."

"What is it mom?" Stan asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and waiting for the request.

"I need you to go downstairs in an hour and start getting dinner ready. The crock pot is already out on the counter, you just need to cut the potatoes and the onion, mix the beef stock with the water and put it all in the pot. Plug it in and let it start boiling while you cube the meat and brown it, then add it to the rest of the ingredients in the pot and let it boil and simmer for an hour, OK honey?"

"Couldn't you have just emailed me this?" he asked, writing down the last of it on his arm.

"I didn't know if you were going to be on, Stanley," Sharon admonished him. "But you will do it, right?"

"Yes, mom, I'll do it," Stan said. "See you later," he added, hanging up as soon as his mother added her own "Goodbye."

By the time he got back to the telescope, the Realtor had left the block already. Not seeing any point in lingering at the window anymore, he began to make his way downstairs. It would take him at least a good ten to fifteen minutes to hobble down there, and he figured it would be best to just go down and maybe watch TV in the living room for awhile until it was time to carry out his orders. That way he wouldn't stay at his telescope till the last minute, realize what he was supposed to be doing, try to rush to the kitchen on his crutches, and tumble down the stairs. A broken neck on top of a broken leg and everything else that was going on didn't really sound all that appealing.

_Fuck that. Besides, I can always pull out the old Gamesphere. That's good for a few laughs still._

Working his way down step by step, he managed to reach the safety of the living room without taking a tumble. One thing he never got used to, regardless of how long he'd been stuck like this (going on four weeks now) was the anxiety. Stairs always filled him with dread, as did escalators (though he rarely saw those, being confined to his house and all) and other places where balancing precariously on two sticks could result in more broken bones.

_If there's one thing I'm looking forward to more than scratching that itch, it's being able to walk around my own house without worrying about killing myself._

He made his way into the kitchen and sat down at the table with a sigh. Could life get any shittier? Well, actually, he supposed it could. A look at the calendar on the wall reminded him that there was something in his very near future that could make everything he was enduring now seem like a fucking wet dream in comparison. He couldn't see the red circle around July 26, as the calendar was still set to June, but he knew that if he got up and flipped ahead one month, it would still be there, glaring at him like the eye of Sauron.

_My court date. The day that could ruin my life forever. Oh God, how did this happen to me?_

How he was still free was a miracle to him, considering what they said he did.

* * *

_"Stanley Marsh," the judge said, looking down at him with a look of surprise. "That's the last name I ever expected to see on my docket."_

_"You know," Stan replied, looking back at him with a rather angry look on his face, "I feel exactly the same way."_

_He knew that he should use more respectful words when speaking to the man who held his very fate in his hands, but he was too upset at the moment to use clear judgment. Not only had he been arrested on a bogus charge, right there while shopping with his mother for ground beef, he had been hauled in to an express arraignment without the chance to make himself look good or anything. The Stan Marsh that he knew the judge was seeing was not an impressive one. He was dressed in black, baggy pants and a Robert Smith T-shirt he'd bought at Hot Topic just the day before. On his wrists were black wristbands, one featuring Invader Zim and the other sporting a picture of a cheeseburger and the words "Don't Feed Phil". He'd had a chain running from his beltloop to his back pocket, but the police had taken that, of course, and he'd probably never see it again._

God, I'm dressed like I'm going to a Green Day concert, not facing possible jail time,_ he thought. _The only difference between me and those Billie Joe fanboys is a God damn necktie.  
_  
The judge flipped through some papers in Stan's file, skimming over the details. At one point his eyes went wide and he looked over his glasses at him in shock._

_"This is unbelievable," he said. "Stan Marsh being charged with...with THIS? I never thought I'd see the day."_

_"Your honor," his public defender said, "we'd like to motion that Stanley be released on his own recognizance. He's never been a threat to anyone, and his clean record precedes him."_

_The prosecution wasted no time trying to squash this. All things considered, they wanted him rotting in a jail cell until he was tried and convicted, then they'd happily see him rot away in another jail cell for another five to ten years._

_"Your honor," they countered, "this boy is being charged with a serious crime. He didn't just steal a candy bar. He..."_

_"I KNOW what he's being charged with," the judge shot back, cutting them off in mid-sentence, "and I'm telling you right now, the Stan Marsh that grew up in this town is a model citizen. He used to come shovel the snow off my walk when he was a little boy. He and the other scouts used to do all kinds of things to help the community. He coached the Pee-Wee Hockey League when my son was on it. This boy is not a risk. Defense motion is granted," he said, hitting the gavel._

_"Your honor!" the prosecutor objected. "Don't you think you're a little close to the defendant?"_

_"Are you suggesting I recuse myself from an arraignment, Counselor?" the judge replied with raised eyebrows._

_"No sir, but if you're going to handle this case for trial - "_

_"You know full well that this boy's fate will be decided by a jury of his peers, not me, Mr. Hawkins. Is there anything else?"_

_"No, your honor."_

_"Very well then, jury selection will commence 26 July, opening arguments to begin no later than the 28th. Next case?"_

* * *

Stan hadn't heard from his PD since. This alone was worrying, since he expected the DA's office to have at least offered him a plea bargain. That was the way it worked on Law & Order, anyway. The prosecutors always seemed to take pity on first time offenders, especially kids. There always seemed to be a plea bargain for a frightened boy who'd never done anything wrong before.

_So where the hell is mine?_

Maybe they just hated him. It could have a lot to do with his skater image. The baggy clothes, the chains; all of it said to people like that asshole Hawkins that he was a soulless little troublemaker who had no moral values at all, and that he should be made to suffer for what he was being accused of doing. Hell, a beady-eyed little prick like that would probably motion that Stan be sent to the gallows if he thought he could get away with it. Nevermind that the death penalty was only for murder charges, or that no jury or judge in the fucking country would be willing to give a child such a sentence; he'd still try, and probably ask if he could be the one who got to do the honors.

_He'd be happy just to get another 'punk kid' out of the way. It'd make room for people who hold closer to what _he_ believes, the little shitter.  
_  
His mother would have told him that he was judging Hawkins unfairly. After all, wasn't he just doing his job? Fuck that. He wasn't "just doing his job". He had a personal vendetta against Stan and everyone like him. Even after the judge had personally stood in and vouched for his character, the heartless cocksucker had continued to argue that Stan was a dangerous menace to society. That just SCREAMED bias in Stan's opinion.

Thinking so much about the prosecution made him wonder if his own lawyer had any plan to defend him. Had he had bothered to look at the evidence, or was he just planning on throwing Stan up into the witness box and to the lions? Given the lack of contact he'd had, he strongly suspected the latter. After all, as long as Stan could plant reasonable doubt, he'd go free. For a crime he didn't commit in the first place. _'Gotta love the American legal system,_' he mused darkly, glancing at the clock and waiting for the time to start dinner to arrive.

In the meantime, there were always Terrance and Phillip reruns...


	2. First Sight

**A Note From Ben and "P2": REVIEW! Please. This only got two reviews on the last chapter, and that was most disappointing. We know you all are out there. Please, if you enjoy this fic, tell us. Hell, even if you don't, tell us.**

* * *

**Chapter Two – First Sight**

Stan looked at his watch impatiently. God damn it, that fat fuck said he'd be over at three thirty, and it was two minutes to four. Where the hell was he anyway? No doubt at Blimpie's or some place like that cramming oversized portions of greasy fast food down his throat. Stan knew this, because that was _always_ his excuse. Every time they scheduled a time to get together, Cartman showed up late, and he was always licking juice or gravy or something off of his fingers or off of some sandwich wrapper when he got there.

_Fat inconsiderate bastard slob. Can't ignore his own belly for ten fucking minutes, even for people he calls friends._

Right as rain, though, two minutes of impatient toe-tapping and exasperated sighing later, Cartman just walked into his room without taking any considerations, such as knocking. He was sure glad he hadn't decided to jack off a bit while he was waiting, or they would have both gotten quite a surprise.

"Hey fag, why isn't the XBOX on yet?" he asked as he stormed in.

"Gee, why waste power when you're not going to be here for another god only knows how long?" Stan replied sarcastically.

"I was just having mah afternoon snack, Stan!" Cartman answered defensively. "Don't tell me you're buying into that going green bullshit too..."

"Fatass, a triple cheeseburger with king-size onion rings and a double-chocolate milkshake isn't a _snack_, it's a week's worth of meals to an Ethiopian!"

"Whatever, Stan," the other scoffed. "Just turn on the damn console."

Stan felt a strong desire to curse the fat asshole out. Cartman was standing right by the television, easily within arm's reach of the XBOX power switch, and _he_ was sitting by the window with a busted leg. Instead of stooping to his level, however, Stan just got shakily to his feet, hobbled over, and hit the button with the end of his crutch. That accomplished, he limped back to his seat by the window and resumed staring gloomily out into the neighborhood.

"You're not gonna play?" Cartman asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Go ahead without me, dude," Stan replied, not even bothering to look over at him. "I have nothing to do most of the time but play that stupid game, and I'm kinda burnt out on it."

Cartman looked at him as though he'd just blasphemed. Sick of video games? Those words were not in his vocabulary. How did one grow sick of video games? It was like saying you're tired of Cheesy Poofs, or you're tired of quadruple bacon guacamole cheeseburgers. It...just wasn't logical.

"Well, I'm not gonna play this faggy little skater game by myself," he said, dropping the controller and walking over to join his friend by the window. Stan didn't fail to notice that he hadn't bothered to turn it off.

"Damn it, Cartman!" he snarled. "Can't you..."

He stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed a car pull up into the driveway of the empty house next door. It wasn't the realtor's car, so that could only mean that the new neighbors had arrived at last. He quickly pulled out his telescope, set it up on the mount, and took a peek down at the people getting out of the flashy hybrid. The first was a rather plump woman with an overly large bun of red hair sticking up from the back of her head that was only challenged in size by her Barbara Streisand nose. She had a nasty look on her face that told Stan, even from a distance, that she didn't trust anyone and that it would be a good idea to give her a wide berth.

The next out of the car was the driver, a man with a beard and a Jewish skullcap that Stan already strongly suspected covered a bald spot. Around it was a smattering of brown hair, which led Stan to presume his new neighbor was either an accountant or a lawyer, thereby hitting both the Jewish stereotypes. He'd find out later from his parents, who would no doubt be paying the new family a visit.

It was the third person out of the car that made Stan's breath catch in his throat. He was the most beautiful boy Stan had ever seen. He had a large mass of red hair, like his mother, that same large nose, and he wore a non-descript screenprint tee shirt with a Metallica logo and jeans, but even with that normal clothing choice, Stan could tell he was fit. The shirt hugged muscles, and the jeans were so tight Stan could immediately see that the new kid had an ass.

"What are you looking at, fag?" Cartman asked, staring at the new family. "It's just a bunch of Jews moving in to the old DiMarco place, what's so damn fascinating?"

Stan didn't answer, just zoomed in closer on the new boy.

"Are you staring at that ginger kid's ass, you fag?"

Stan ignored him and zoomed as far as he could. God, this boy was perfect. Whoever he was, he was the most beautiful specimen of boyhood ever created by the hand of God. Stan wanted to know everything about him. What was his name? Where was he from? Did he have to work out to get such a great ass or did it just come naturally to him? So many questions, and the worst part was he was stuck in the house with a fucking broken leg and couldn't ask a single one of them! God damn it!

"Cartman, go say hello for me," he said.

"Fuck that," Cartman said with a sneer. "There's no chance in hell I'm gonna be the fag messenger boy, especially not to a Jew."

"Come on, dude," Stan pleaded, "I'll let you take whatever you want out of the refrigerator."

"Nope," Cartman said, crossing his arms and shaking his head. "I would have taken that if you'd used it any other time, but I draw the line at faggy ginger Jewboys!"

Stan swore and turned back to his telescope, but was shocked to see that the boygod he'd been admiring had wandered into the house with his family and was no longer in view. Oh God, what if he picked a bedroom on the other side of the house? Stan would never get a chance to admire him, unless he got lucky and spotted him when he came outside to pick up the mail or something.

_God, I know I don't ask you for much, but please. Can't he move into that room over there? Please? I'll do whatever you ask. I'll even give up masturbation...for a week._

Apparently God was in a good mood towards Catholics, because nearly the second Stan's silent prayer was sent to Heaven, the door to the room he had his eye on turned, admitting the object of Stan's admiring carrying a box marked "Bedroom" in large but very neat handwriting. He set the box down and looked around his new room, and as he turned, Stan got a wonderful dead-on view of the boy's ass. It was a great ass. Stan felt as if he could sleep for days on those pert cheeks, once the denim and (presumably) cloth covering them was removed, and wanted then and there to be with him and wear his ass as a hat for all eternity.

Apparently satisfied with the appearance of his bare walls, the boy turned around again, giving Stan a view of his crotch. Thankfully, he wasn't horny, as Stan could detect no bulge in the very tight pants. He quickly zoomed out, because Cartman was trying to push him away and have a look himself.

"What do you want, Cartman?" he demanded, trying to fight him off.

"Find out who you wanna cheat on Wendy with, faggot," the other replied rather nastily.

"We're not _together_ you idiot, we haven't been for like...six years!"

"So?"

"Goddamn it you're so retarded!" Stan cried in disgust.

"Yeah, well you're a crippled skaterfag," Cartman shot back, "so shut up and go make me a pie!"

Stan punched him in retaliation, and Cartman punched him back. This caused them to start punching each other repeatedly, faster and faster, harder and harder until they were both making quite a fuss. They only stopped when Cartman grabbed his hand and motioned out the window. Stan looked in the direction he was pointing and saw the new kid looking over at them with a rather amused expression on his face. When he saw that he'd been spotted, he gave a good-natured wave. Stan knew that he ought to offer one in return, but at that moment, every muscle in his body seemed to tense up, and he couldn't move.

"Wave back, stupid!" Cartman hissed.

Stan stuttered and wheezed for a couple more seconds before he finally managed to gain enough control over his facilities to raise his arm into the air. Tragically, however, by the time he'd done this, the neighbor boy had given up with a shrug and had gone off to some other room in the house, presumably to help his parents with something. Cartman found this outrageously funny and didn't bother to conceal his laughter or the sadistic glee in his eyes.

"You blew it, fag boy!" he said, needling. "You totally choked!"

"Shut the hell up, Cartman!" he shot back.

* * *

Later that night, Stan was sitting having dinner with his parents when he decided to bring up the subject of the new neighbors. Sharon and Randy Marsh were quite active in the community and generally met all new residents right away. Stan remembered an incident from his grade school days when Michael Jackson had moved to town in disguise. His parents had immediately invited him and his son Blanket over for dinner. They had found the man to be rather eccentric, and they certainly didn't like his overzealous adoration of children, and thus a second invitation had not been extended. Still, that they were willing to reach out once in an attempt to welcome him showed their friendliness and compassion for others.

"So, uh, Mom and Dad, did you notice the old DiMarco place isn't empty anymore?"

"Yeah, Stanley, we did," Randy replied between forkfuls of tuna casserole

"So, have you been over there yet?"

"No, honey, sorry, we haven't. It's a workday, you know," Sharon replied this time, taking a drink from her milk.

"Well, do you know anything about them?" Stan asked, anxious to find out anything he could about his new neighbors and their godly son.

"Well, this is a rumor I heard from Nelson, who heard it from his wife, who heard it at the salon from the Realtor, but he says they're a Jewish family, the Broflovskis. The dad's a lawyer, the mom's some sort of political activist, and they have two absolutely brilliant sons, one of which is at a fast-track college prep academy in Upstate New York even though he's only ten," Randy explained. Stan grimaced.

"What about the other one?" he asked, exasperated.

"I got nothing," Randy said, looking to Sharon.

"Me either, honey. We'll visit them over the weekend, OK?"

"Fine..."

To say Stan was disappointed would be putting it mildly. They had all the information in the world on the parents, and on the ten-year old up in New York, but nothing on the person he really wanted to know about. The only useful thing they'd really told him was their last name, which Stan immediately memorized and recited over and over in his head. Broflovski, Broflovski, Broflovski; sounded kind of Russian, honestly. He had a feeling that when Cartman found out, he'd make communist jokes on top of the fag, ginger, and Jew jokes he'd already started spewing.

He finished his dinner and retired to his room, where he immediately went to work trying to catch another glimpse of "Broflovski" with his telescope. The new kid's room was completely dark, however, and he was unable to spot anything. The boy was either somewhere in the house doing something or already in bed sleeping. He hoped more for the former than the latter. If "Broflovski" wasn't in bed yet, then he would inevitably have to return to him room at some point to get there.  
_  
Dream on, Marsh,_ he scolded himself. _Their furniture hasn't even arrived yet. He'll probably sleep downstairs on an air mattress tonight.  
_  
Crestfallen, he put away his telescope and hobbled over to his television to watch cartoons.

* * *

_He was standing in a sauna, trying to look through the steam. There was someone else here, he could tell, but they were nothing but a shadowy blur. He inched closer, completely missing the fact that his leg wasn't broken, and thus missing the fact that he was dreaming. He only cared about the boy sitting there on the wooden bench, the boy he knew was waiting for him._

_He moved closer and closer, his heart racing. His feet felt like lead weights, and he was breathing so heavily he wondered if he was going to give himself an asthma attack. That'd be real smooth. Here he was in the most sensual moment of his young life, the kind of stuff pornos were made of, and he was on the verge on panicking. God, wouldn't it be awful if he vomited all over the place like he used to do with Wendy? The very thought was too horrific for him to handle._

_When he got close enough, he could finally see the gorgeous red hair of the Broflovski boy, as well as his beautifully toned muscles, which were glistening with sweat._

_"Hey there," he said with a mischievous grin. God, he had the most perfect teeth, too._

_"Hey yourself," Stan replied._

_The other boy had nothing on but a towel around his waist. As Stan watched, however, the boy turned around and began removing it, giving him a gorgeous view of that perfect ass. It was completely smooth, and so milky white. Stan found himself getting hard just looking at it, and when he looked down he saw that there was NOTHING hiding his excitement; he was completely nude._

_"My God," he said. "You're gorgeous."_

_"I'll bet you say that to all the guys you meet in the sauna," Broflovski replied, winking at him over his shoulder._

_"Well, uh...hehe...I don't..." Stan stuttered, blushing furiously even though his face was already heated from the room and it was highly doubtful that Broflovski would notice._

_"Relax," he said. "I'm not objecting..." he added, shyly, turning around. Stan looked down to see if Broflovski shared his excitement, and..._

* * *

_Fuck_, Stan thought, waking up in his desk chair, insanely hard and breathing fast.

His thoughts went back to the time he'd spent in this room a couple of years ago with Kenny, "experimenting." That was when he'd found out he was very, very turned on by kissing boys.Ken hadn't reacted quite the same, preferring "lovely lady lumps" over members of his same sex. That said, they'd still exchanged handjobs, and Stan had had his first taste of another man. He'd liked it, Kenny hadn't, and they'd remained sexually polar-opposite friends. It had never gone to full nudity, and Stan was somewhat excited by the fact that it had already in his dream.  
_  
Is this what love at first sight feels like?_ he wondered.


	3. Fun and Games

**A Note From Ben and "P2": Okay, so here's another chapter of Stargazing. We really had a lot of fun writing this one, for reasons you'll see as you get into it. And, if you want, there's going to be another version of this on P2's dA account. Well, the good bit of it. Don't worry, Kyle will actually show up soon. We'll even find out his name next chapter, believe it or not. :P**

**Chapter Three - Fun and Games**

Stan looked up from the XBOX as Wendy walked into his room.

"Sorry I'm late Stan..." she said, before looking at the other teen in the room, and gave him a curt nod. "Cartman."

"Hippy fag-bitch," Cartman replied, not even looking at her.

"So, what are you two doing?" she asked, grabbing a beanbag chair and plopping down next to Stan as he tapped the controller to move his avatar forward.

"Finishing up this level. Probably going to play Halo after," Stan replied, looking over at her. "You wanna grab a spare controller and make it a three-way?"

Cartman started chortling and Wendy blanched as Stan blushed furiously. "GAME. A three-way GAME, GOD you two..."

Wendy shook her head in disgust and sat down on Stan's left, as far away from the fat ass as she could possibly get. The two of them had never gotten along, from the day they met in first grade when Cartman greeted her as "the black-haired bitch ho". It had only gotten worse in recent years, however, as Cartman had developed a rather bad infatuation with her. He never said it, of course, and none of them ever mentioned it, but they knew it was there. They knew it by the way Cartman looked at her, the way his insults didn't seem as heartfelt and cruel when he aimed them in her direction, the way he seemed to go out of his way at times to do things for her.

Poor sucker doesn't even realize what a waste of time it is, Stan thought to himself, glancing over at his friend.

This might seem a little judgmental, but Stan was justified in his thoughts. Wendy had often expressed to him her loathing of Cartman, and told him how uncomfortable she was with his affections. He was the last person in the world she would ever consider being with, even if there was no one else on the planet and the survival of the entire human race depended on the two of them getting together and copulating a few times.

"I can't believe you're playing this game again," she said, bringing him out of his thoughts. "How many times will you go through Underground before you finally wear the disc out or go crazy?"

"What should he play, ho?" Cartman sneered. "That lame ass High School Musical game?"

"I'd think anything but this," she said, doing her best to ignore him.

"Guys, I already said we were going to play Halo as soon as we finish this level, and Cartman, I don't even OWN the High School Musical game."

"I got it for you last Christmas, fag!" Cartman shot back. "You do so!"

"No I don't, I gave it to Goodwill."

"Then how come I caught you singing 'Start of Something New' last week huh? After that faggy ginger kid moved in next door."

Stan flushed again and scowled.

"You got a ginger kid for a neighbor?" Wendy asked excitedly, making Cartman cringe.

"Not just a ginger kid, ho, a Jewish ginger kid."

"Oh God, a Kosher guy next door?" Wendy exclaimed, practically drooling and watching Cartman sicken more and more. "Stan, you know how much I looooove Kosher men."

"Wendy, lay off," Stan mumbled. "You're just gonna piss Cartman off."

"I know," she said brightly, "That's the fun of it."

"Yeah, well I don't want him to get all melodramatic and whiny. It hurts my ears."

"Ah'm in the room, goddamn fags..."

"We know, Cartman," Wendy said, scooting forward to switch the game discs and letting her shirt ride up to give Cartman a teasing glance at something he'd never see more of, inciting a muttered "Goddamnit" from the fat boy.

While Halo was booting up, Stan looked at the clock. 3:15PM, the digital display read, and that meant that "Broflovsi would be entering his room, just as he always did every day at that time. One thing Stan had noticed about the boy, he was very obsessive-compulsive. He had his set routines and specific methods for doing everything. For example, Stan had discovered that he always folded his own boxers and put them away, and he always folded them left leg first, then the right leg, then he folded the waistband over to a specific point. If he didn't do it right, he would unfold them and start over.

_It's so cute_, he thought dreamily as he got to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Wendy asked him.

"It's new kid time," he replied, hobbling over to the window and pulling out his telescope.

"He's been stalking the Jew," Cartman said with a roll of his eyes. "He spies on him all the time."

"I dunno if that's creepy or sweet, to be honest with you," Wendy said with a roll of her eyes.

Stan pretended not to hear this as he mounted the telescope on the tripod and moved it into position. Let them make fun if they wanted to. At least it would keep them from fucking fighting all the time, and it wouldn't stop him from looking. He'd still get to admire this mysterious bo whether they approved of it or not. In fact, something about everyone being against it made it that much more exciting.

_Maybe I'm just becoming voyeuristic or something_, Stan thought, adjusting his focus as his would-be boyfriend continued to unpack, apparently without the benefit of air conditioning in his room. His t-shirt was fairly well drenched with sweat, and as Stan watched, he pulled off the bothersome garment. Instead of doing as any normal teen would have and throwing it across the room, this boy paused from assembling his computer desk to walk it across the room to his laundry hamper and drop it in before walking back to the desk and laying on his back to get to a particularly bothersome screw. He tensed his muscles as he worked, making them pop up against the skin and showing Stan a sexy six-pack of abs and a dusting of light red hair below his navel.

"WELL FINE, BITCH, stick me with a plasma grenade just as I'm about to plant the flag for the winning score! SCREW you guys, Ah'm goin' home!" Cartman shouted, slamming his XBOX controller down and storming out of the room. Aside from shocking Stan out of his adoring reverie, the outburst also allowed Wendy to walk over and sit next to Stan, looking over to Broflovski's room and seeing the exact same scene as her friend, except in far lower resolution.

"Damn, Stan, he really IS hot," she marveled. "I'd tap that nine times, no joke."

"Bitch you steal my man I'll cut you nine times," Stan shot back in a teasing tone, looking away from his telescope with a twinkling in his eye as he caught Wendy's gaze, seeing that she was clearly amused at his very stereotypically gay statement.

"So, what's his name?" Wendy asked, turning back to playing Peeping Tom with Stan.

"Dunno," Stan said. "Mom and Dad were supposed to go over there last weekend, but then we had that earthquake and all that emergency reconstructive nasal surgery for those hoboes at the epicenter so they couldn't spare the time. They promised to go today sometime."

"Oh, so that's why they're headed over with that casserole your mom was making when I showed up?"

"Oh shit, they're going now?" Stan asked, abandoning the telescope to stick his head out the window in time to watch his parents walk up the Broflovski's front walk, and his mother was indeed carrying her casserole dish.

"Why shit, Stan?"

"Well, if they're going to visit the family...that probably means Mr. June there too," Stan said, as the beehive-haired redheaded mother welcomed Stan's parents inside. He pulled his head back in and re-focused his attention on his boygod just as the other boy pulled himself out from under the desk, as if someone were calling him. Stan saw his lips move, which could mean nothing good. He proceeded to set his screwdriver on his bed and pull on another shirt from his closet before leaving the room, presumably headed downstairs.

"Fuck," Stan cursed, moving away from the telescope.

"What?" Wendy asked.

"Fuck fuck FUCK!" he exclaimed, causing her to jump. "He fucking LEFT! Probably got called away to a dinner party that _I wasn't invited to_!"

"In all fairness," Wendy said, "it isn't really a dinner party. It's still early afternoon."

"So?" Stan snapped.

"So," Wendy continued, "it would be more of a mid-afternoon brunchy thing."

Stan looked ready to breathe fire.

"Call it what you want to," he snarled, "but it doesn't change the fact that I still wasn't invited, damn it!"

"Okay, okay," she soothed. "Just calm down."

She put a comforting arm around his shoulders and he melted into her touch. There was a reason she was his closest friend, and it wasn't just because he had once been allowed to feel up her rockin' tits. No, she was more like a big sister to him since he'd told her he was gay and put any former sexual tensions and hard feelings about their relationship aside. She was always there for him when he needed a shoulder to cry on, a person to laugh with, or even someone to just hang out around the mall.

"It's just not fair," he said into her chest. His face was right in her breasts, and ironically neither of them noticed. "All I want is a few minutes to meet the new kid, to talk to him, to get to know him, and the one chance I get, my parents leave me behind. Where's the justice in that?"

"I know, I know," she cooed. "You'll get your chance though."

"Not while I'm in this damned cast I won't," Stan pouted. "Taking five minutes just to get down the fucking stairs..."

"You won't be in it, much longer though. Just a couple weeks," she replied, rubbing his back gently.

"Yeah," he muttered, "but that's still two weeks, and I'll be in a boot for God-only-knows how long after that. How am I gonna get the attention of anyone stuck in this house? He'll probably have his own social circle by that time, an entire clique of friends to keep him company. I won't stand a chance."

"Stan..."

"To make matters worse," he said miserably, "I made this stupid promise and it's making my life a living hell.

"What promise?"

"I...kinda promised God I wouldn't jack off for a week if He arranged it so he would move into the room across from mine," Stan explained. "Way to strip myself of the one form of stress relief I had in this place, huh?"

Wendy wasn't sure whether she should laugh at this or not. It was absurd, of course it was. That someone like Stan, who was agnostic at best, would make a promise to a Higher Being he didn't necessarily believe in, just so he could get a free peep show every now and then? How could you not laugh at something like that? To make it worse, it was a promise not to masturbate Still, Stan seemed pretty serious about it, so she kept it in, making a mental note to let it all out the minute he was out of earshot so she wouldn't explode.

"I take it the promise isn't going so well?" she asked, trying so hard to hide the amusement in her voice and failing miserably.

"Not really," he said. "In all honesty, I feel like more of a pervert not doing it than I ever did when I was doing it freely. Last night I was laying here in the nude, hard as a fucking rock, doing everything in my power not to just reach out and..."

He blushed deeply. He'd never been this open with her about his bedroom habits before. He'd mentioned it before sure, and she'd admitted to him that she sometimes liked to finger herself, but they'd never really been that detailed about it. For him to sit there and tell her about his throbbing erection and all of that, well it was something completely different for them.

"Reach out and grab that bad boy and fuck your hand raw until you shot a million of your babies all over your body, your bed, and your room?" she finished for him. He stared at her, slack-jawed.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing...it's just so damn frustrating to watch him assemble all of this belongings by hand, and end up shirtless every goddamn time, and then have that image burned into my brain at night while dreaming about him naked in saunas..."

"As frustrated as you are right now?" she asked, pointing down at his crotch. Stan followed her indication and saw that yes, he was quite "frustrated," as she put it.

"Want some help with that?" she asked, kneeling down beside him and reaching for his pants.

"Wendy?" he asked, wondering what she was planning. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to jack you off. You're obviously in need, and what kind of friend would I be if I didn't help you out?"

"Uhm...a normal one? I mean, we used to be together, this isn't the most appropriate thing in the world..."

"Oh come on, who's going to see?" she asked. "We're all alone, and I want to help you."

"You're not just trying to get in my pants so you can brag about how you're the only girl who's ever going to touch me like that, are you?"

"It's just a simple handjob between friends, Stan...think of it as stress relief, only I'm the one squeezing your rubber ball," she replied, a smirk on her face as she unzipped his pants and stuck her hand through his boxers to give him a squeeze.

"Holy fucking Jumping Jesus!" Stan exclaimed, stiffening in both senses of the word as she began a gentle stroking motion and brought his pants down to his knees, leaving him sitting by the window with a shocked and pleasured expression on his face while his best friend was doing something he'd needed done for the last week for him.

"Ya know," she commented as she started a slow, fast, fast, slow, fast, fast rhythm, "You've grown a lot since the last time I saw this baby. Making me hot, Stan..."

Stan could just moan. He was closing his eyes, his hands looking for something to hold onto. A random onlooker would think him spastic, given the random movements of his arms.

"Such a fucking shame you're gay," she continued, keeping up her rhythm. "I bet you'd be the best fuck in town...girls would be ALL over you...You'd be drowning in a sea of tits, but then I look across that fence and I think you made the best choice of your life to want cock. I bet he's HUGE," she said, the end of this turning into a husky, lust-filled whisper as she continued to stroke.

"HOLY FUCKING HELL!" Stan said, unable to restrain a loud moan. "Fucking HELL! Broflovski!" His hips jerked upward as her hand headed down, and she could see that he wouldn't last much longer.

"Oh, you like that?" Wendy asked saucily. "Do you have any idea what I'm going to have to do after I head home, Stan? Oh, God, I'm going to have to raid my Dad's porn stash...break out Backdoor Sluts 9, the vibrator Bebe got me for Christmas, and indulge myself in the filthiest porn ever made by man."

Stan's moans weakened but increased in number as he neared his breaking point, Wendy's soft, moisturized hand making firm but gentle strokes on him, and her breath touching him on its way in and out.

"Fags, I forgot my Mega-Gulp Thirst Quen-OH MY FUCKING GOD!"

Cartman looked at the spectacle before him in shock. He had, unfortunately, walked in JUST as Stan reached his peak and shot off his load with a loud moan. More unfortunately than this, because Cartman's outburst had diverted her attention away, Wendy's face had been right next to the barrel when the gun went off.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!" she squealed, looking around the room for anything she could find to wipe it off.

All Stan could do through all of this was lay there by the window, his pants down to his knees, trying not to grunt as his cock shot off it's load again and again and again, obviously to make up for all the days he'd gone without. Therefore he looked quite the sight with his balls hanging down, his cock sticking straight up, and his shirt getting more and more covered with his own fluids.

"Oh my GOD!" Cartman shouted, throwing his arm up across his face. "What the fucking HELL were you two doing? You goddamn fag, you seduced Wendy, didn't you!?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Wendy screamed at him from across the room, where she had appropriated a tee shirt from Stan's laundry hamper to clean off her face. "I was just helping him out!"

"With what, huh? Didn't look like you were doing anything more than losing your hand-virginity to the fag over there!"

"Mind your own business, lardass! I was helping him keep a promise he made to God not to jack off for a week since that smokin' hot new boy moved into the room across from his!"

"God you suck!" Cartman shouted, grabbing his Mega-Gulp Thirst Quencher and stomping towards the door. "Stan, YOU suck, and Wendy, YOU suck too! You're both a bunch of cocksucking fags! I HATE YOU BOTH SO MUCH GOD DAMNIT!" That said, Cartman stormed down the stairs, cursing in English, Spanish, Latin and Klingon.

Stan and Wendy looked at each other blankly for a moment, both blinking a couple of times. Stan was the first one to break the silence.

"Can you pass me my KISS shirt?" he asked, indicating his semen-covered shirt. His face was beet red, either from getting caught or from the thorough word-duel that had occurred between Cartman and Wendy.

Wendy passed him a shirt with the image of Gene Simmons on the front, and he took it gratefully. Somehow, he didn't think the "protein" would ever really come out of his Metallica shirt. He could probably get most of it to wash out, but he was pretty sure there would always be a stiff, discolored area that nobody would be able to mistake.

_This shirt is ruined forever_, he thought unhappily. _Why couldn't I have been wearing that stupid Hawthorne Heights shirt today?_

He changed quickly and cast the remains of what was once one of his favorite articles of clothing aside.

"Um," Wendy said, feeling her own neglecting desires screaming at her, "I think it would be best if I left now."

God, she was wet between her legs. Pleasuring Stan in the way she had, hearing his moans and seeing his adorable face scrunch up in ecstasy, was just too much for her. She still had a lot of feelings deep inside for her former boyfriend. She never talked about them, of course, and at times seemed to be in denial about them. She was especially careful when Cartman was around, because he seemed to be a bit obsessed with her, and she wasn't sure what he would do if she told him that she still wanted Stan.

_He'd go apeshit, she thought unhappily. He'd probably kill someone, or at least try...he'd probably try to kill Stan._

"Things aren't going to get weird between us now, are they?" Stan asked as she headed for the door.

She looked back at him and saw a look of anxiety on his face.

"No, I don't think so," she said.

"I hope not," he said, "because I don't want to lose another friend. First there was that...thing with Kenny, then Cartman got pissed at me today. If I lost you, not only would I be losing my last friend, I'd be losing my best friend."

Her heart went out to him and she walked over to him and sat back down beside him. She took his hand gently and looked into his eyes with a smile.

"Nothing will ever change between us, Stan," she said. "I promise you that."

She kissed him on the cheek, then got up and walked out, swishing her hips unconsciously and humming to herself; leaving him to sit there, blushing, smiling, and still on good terms with Jesus.


	4. Dinner and a Show

**Chapter Four - Dinner and a Show**

"Stan, honey, you've barely touched your fish sticks," Sharon chided.

"Sorry, mom," Stan mumbled, picking one up and biting into it absentmindedly.

Randy looked over at his place at the head of the table and raised an eyebrow. His son had been acting awfully funny lately, and he wasn't sure why. It had all started when the new neighbors moved in. He had asked a lot of strange questions about them, their son in particular. He seemed to be obsessing over someone he'd never even met. Of course, there was no way to tell if that's what was bothering Stan tonight. Even Randy knew that that would be jumping to some pretty big conclusions.

"What's bothering you?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," he replied, "just thinking."

"What about?" Randy asked.

"Well..."

Stan wasn't sure what to tell his father. There was a lot on his mind actually. He was thinking of the new boy, Broflovski, again. He wanted to ask as many questions as he could about him. Surely they knew more about him now that they'd had dinner with him and his parents. What was his name? What did he like to do? What were his hobbies, his interests, his dreams? What was his favorite movie? Did he have a teddy bear? Anything and everything that could possibly be known about one human being, Stan wanted to know it about Broflovski.

On top of all the thoughts of his favorite redhead, he was also replaying the scene from earlier that day in his head over and over again. He couldn't get the feeling of Wendy's hands upon his member, gliding up and down, slow and fast, causing him to moan and whimper, out of his head no matter how hard he tried. It felt...really good, and he wasn't trying to convince himself that he hadn't enjoyed it. The part that bothered him was at the end, when he'd cried out Broflovski's name and she'd just shrugged it off as if it had never happened. Normally, when someone does something like that with another person, it's considered very rude and hurtful to moan someone else's name.

_That was the worst thing I could have ever done._

To make things worse, he still felt unbelievably guilty about jizzing on her face. Of all the embarrassing things he'd ever done in his life, that had to be at the very top of the list. She was his best friend, sure, but even best friends don't squirt in each others' faces. Each time it replayed in his head, it made him feel worse. She'd told him afterwards not to worry about it, but he did just the same. He kept seeing the revulsion in her eyes, kept hearing her screams of horror as she looking madly around the room for something to wipe it off.

"Stanley, honey?" his mother asked. "You were saying?"

"Oh, uhm..." Stan muttered, trying to stall. "Just, thinking about some stuff." Stuff I'd never ever want to tell you two...or Shelley...or even Hugh Hefner.

"You're not upset because we left you behind, are you?" Sharon asked, looking over at her son with concern in her eyes. "Because I didn't think it would bother you that much, since you wouldn't have to hobble downstairs and back up, honey."

_But you screwed me out of a chance to make an idiot out of myself by stammering and/or puking on their Adonis of a son!_ Stan's mind screamed. Instead, he poked at his macaroni and cheese and mumbled "No."

"I did feel bad about it, though, after I saw their oldest boy," Sharon continued. Stan's eyes flared with jealousy as she added "He's your age, you know, and I think you two could be very good friends. He'd certainly be better behaved than that ... heavy ... friend of yours. You should have seen him, he was so courteous and polite, getting things for his mother and father. Very well behaved boy."

_But I don't WANT him to be well-behaved!_ the dirty part of Stan's brain shouted in childish fashion. _I want him to be a dirty, filthy, foul-mouthed boy who knows everything that can be done sexually with a guy and a couple things that can't!_

"That's great, Mom," Stan said. Maybe he could coax all the information out of her without having to ask so many questions, because if he jumped out and started asking all those questions he wanted to ask, they'd get suspicious and then he'd have to make some sort of flimsy excuse that wouldn't work on anybody but his parents.

"His name's Kyle, dear, and he's a very strong, smart boy. He could probably help you fix your skate ramp, or even build you a new one once you get your cast off."

"That would be excellent!" Stan exclaimed, eyes shining with glee. He'd probably be working with his shirt off...all sweaty...and then I could let him shower here...and let him ravish me after... He didn't notice he was turning red until his Dad came up behind him and started doing the Heimlich Maneuver.

"Christ, dad!" he exclaimed as Randy pulled him up out of his chair. "What the hell? I'm not fucking choking!"

"You were turning awfully red," Randy replied.

"Yeah, well..." Stan stuttered, fumbling for an excuse. He shook his head and looked away, then readjusted himself in his chair. Maybe if he just chose not to comment any further, his dad would just give up and go back to his own chair.

"Yeah well what?" Randy persisted belligerently. "You've been acting awfully funny lately, Stan. You've been asking a bunch of strange questions about that new kid, then when your mother mentions him, you suddenly turn red enough to make people think you're choking. What's the deal?"

Shit. His dad was getting suspicious. Neither of his parents knew his sexual preferences yet, and for good reason. He knew that his mother wouldn't care one way or the other. She was the kind of person who wouldn't care one bit who he was boning, or was getting boned by, for that matter, as long as he was doing it safely. His father, on the other hand, was unpredictable. Stan didn't know if he'd flip out if he found out the truth, if he'd accept it gladly, or if he'd be completely apathetic about it. That being the case, he couldn't tell his mother either, because she told his father everything.

_It's a sad thing that I can't trust my own father not to turn on me._

"There's no deal, dad," he told him. "I was just curious, that's all."

"Regular curious, or _BI_-curious?" Randy asked. Stan spluttered.

"Oh my fucking GOD, Dad, SERIOUSLY!" he exclaimed. "Good God, it's like Mom said, I wanted to know if we'd be good friends or not when I get this cast off, and I was thinking about hanging out with him and checking people out. Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter!"

"I just wanted to know, Stan," he said defensively, heading back to his seat and finishing his mac and cheese. "No need to get so defensive."

_Oh if only you knew, Dad...and crazy reactions like that are exactly why I don't want you to._

"Anyway, Mom, you were saying?" he asked, taking another bite. "What else did you learn about my possible new friend?"

"Well, Randy was mostly right about those rumors," Sharon said, putting down her glass of iced tea and looking at her son. "The father's a well-respected trial attorney from the Bronx, the mother's very politically active, and Kyle's younger brother almost disproved the Theory of Relativity last year. Kyle's not a supergenius, but he gets straight As and is virtually a shoo-in for an Ivy League school. I didn't get to talk much with him, so I don't know a lot about his personal life, but his mother couldn't help but brag about all the things he can do. He speaks three languages with near-perfect fluency, he can play the piano better than Ray Charles, and he's won several karaoke contests."

It was all Stan could do to keep from drooling. "English, Hebrew, and..."

"Oh, ah...French, I think," Sharon answered, backtracking in her train of thought.

_French. God, that's sexy._

Stan suddenly saw Kyle over him, pumping and sweating, purring things like "Je t'aime" in his ear. That was far too hot a fantasy to be having at the dinner table, and he had to banish it. The last thing he needed was to pop a boner right there in front of his parents. Nevermind the fact that it would be concealed by the table. No, they'd find a way to notice. They noticed almost everything, as his father's outburst from earlier clearly showed.

"I think I'm finished," he said suddenly, no longer interested in his dinner or family conversation. He wanted to get up to his room, away from his parents and their all-seeing eyes.

"Go ahead then," Sharon said. "I'll take your plate to the kitchen for you. Do you need help upstairs?"

"No."

He got slowly to his feet and limped his way across the house slowly. As he went, his crutches clinked out a strange rhythm, and he mumbled some lyrics he once heard on one of his dad's Jimmy Buffett albums: "This cast is no blast, but it's coming off fast, and I feel like I'm pulling a trailer."

Once he got up to his room, he made his way to the bed and lay down, trying to calm himself and regain control of his body from his raging teenage hormones. No matter what he tried, the mental image of Kyle, hot muscles and sweat-drenched hair hovering over him and taking him to new heights of pleasure - they might have been having sex, but Stan wasn't focusing on that - and whispering sweet nothings in three languages to him in between small flurries of light kisses.

_If it's as hot in reality as it is here, I'll set a new record for premature ejaculation,_ he thought darkly, grabbing the cool side of the pillow and pressing it to his crotch, taking deep breaths to make blood rush AWAY from there and back to other places of his body, like his brain. When it finally reached there, Stan forgot he didn't know a crucial thing about Kyle: whether or not he liked boys. That could be a problem, to go to all this trouble of falling in love and then finding out that the guy is interested in girls.

_I need to watch him some more_, he thought. _If I watch him more, maybe I can get a hint from the way he acts and stuff_. Then he remembered what his mother said "good manners, hard working boy." That could mean ANYTHING. It could make Kyle the perfect gentleman, or it could make him a raging poof. There was the matter of the way he dressed - very similar to Stan - but Stan himself was gay and dressed like he did, so dress didn't really make any difference.

_Too bad I can't see the kind of porn he watches...does he even watch porn, I wonder?_ Stan realized that he'd been watching Kyle for a week now and had never seen him jack off once. He could do it in the shower, like Stan himself normally did, but it was still strange that he never helped himself out in his room. _Fuck this. There's only one way I'll figure this out for sure. I've gotta spy on him some more._

He got up off the bed and made his way across the room. He hadn't bothered to disassemble the telescope since the last time he'd used it. This was mostly because the last time he'd used it was with Wendy earlier that day, and that visit had ended in much disaster. After she'd said her goodbyes and left (with Cartman swearing that they were both dickhole fuckheads), he hadn't felt like doing much of anything, so he'd just left it there. He was using it so often these days anyway, he didn't see much point in disassembling it all the time.

Looking through the lens, he could tell immediately that Kyle was in his room. He wasn't visible, but his light was on, and one of his little obsessive quirks was his refusal to ever leave his room without turning off the light, even if he was just going down the hall for a few minutes to use the bathroom or something like that.

"Where is he?" he muttered to himself. He could see his Nine Inch Nails poster on the wall, and could see his strange jar full of change on the dresser (layered in the jar by denomination, though Stan didn't know how he did it, nor could he see how he had to patience to do such a thing). Everything was visible, but Kyle was strangely missing. "He's gotta be there somewhere."

Suddenly, Stan spotted something he hadn't before. It was a shadow on the wall, clearly belonging to Kyle, and the motions of his arm answered all of Stan's questions about whether Kyle only took care of "business" in the shower. He felt like such a creep watching this, but at the same time he found himself unable to turn away. Up to this point, all his glimpses of the guy had been very innocent. That had been enough to justify looking in on him so much. What was the harm in watching someone hang up posters and fold laundry? This, however, shattered that into a million pieces. Kyle was doing something very private, and he knew he was wrong to look.

_It's so fucking hot, though._

He felt a familiar stirring in his groin and this time he had no problem letting it come as it may. Fuck self control. This was better than any movie he'd ever seen, porn or not. Kyle's hand was moving back and forth, faster and faster, reaching a frenzy as he obviously approached his climax. His shadow dipped a bit as he (presumably) bent his knees in ecstasy. Stan was harder than he'd ever been in his life watching it, and he found himself hoping that it would last. Alas, Kyle's gestures gradually slowed down, and the motions of his shadow told Stan he was reaching for a towel or a Kleenex to catch his load.

_Speaking of loads_, he thought, _I may need to change my boxers after this._

He took a quick peek down and saw the gigantic bulge in his pants. His member was pushing painfully against the cloth, begging to be let out. He was tempted to oblige, but he wanted to take another peek first. He just couldn't get enough of Kyle,and he wanted to see more than his shadow. It would be nice to see his face, at the very least. Stan thought he had the most beautiful face, more beautiful than any he'd ever seen before, and he'd seen a lot in his fifteen years.

Thinking about it brought a smile to his face, and he was still smiling when he put his eye back to the telescope. His happiness was short-lived however, for instead of seeing Kyle bustling about his room, taking care of his usual before-bed business, he saw Kyle glaring back at him from his window, intense anger burning in his bright green eyes. He said something, but Stan had never been very good at reading lips, and the message was lost. He was sure it was nothing nice, all things considered. He had probably just been called a very foul name, or perhaps he'd been told to fuck off.

_Shit, I fucked it up!!_

Kyle looked back at him for a second or two more, then reached up and pulled the blinds shut. Stan just sat frozen, a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.

_Shit._

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit._

He'd pissed Kyle off. He knew that Kyle knew that he was watching, but he supposed watching him get himself off was an invasion of privacy.

_Great. Now he's gonna turn me into the police and people will think I'm some sort of fucking creepy voyeur on top of everything else,_ Stan thought, throwing his arms up in frustration and getting out of his chair. His boner had dissipated, but it had been replaced by frustration of an entirely different kind. Temperamental frustration. He needed to relax, but he wasn't going to be able to do that in his room. When he was like this, the only thing that made him feel better was spending some time on the back lawn, looking up at the stars. Even without a telescope, looking up at the beauty of the universe made him calm.

It was there that he headed, one slow step at a time, accompanied each time by a prayer to God to heal his leg that much faster, because it wasn't getting any easier and he just wanted to be able to walk again. Because if he could walk, he could go over to Kyle's and apologize for making him angry. Hell, if he could walk, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place because he wouldn't have to be spying on Kyle, he could be over at his HOUSE watching him jack off, and maybe even helping him.

_God fucking damnit_, he thought, hobbling through the living room, dining room, and kitchen out towards the back yard, ignoring his parents questions as to where he was going with a deep, brooding scowl that would probably give him lines later in life. Assuming Kyle didn't have ninja skills and use them to sneak into Stan's room that night and murder him, that was.

Sliding open the back door, he made his way out to the center of the back yard and lay down, looking up at the night sky, pleased to find it cloud-free and star-filled. He started taking deep, calming breaths, and before he even managed to locate Polaris and Sirius, he had fallen asleep.

He woke up staring not at the Big Dipper, but into a pair of bemused green eyes. Stan's sleep-fogged brain was slow to identify their owner, as he didn't really know anyone with green eyes.

"You don't look as pervy when you're asleep," Kyle remarked with a grin on his face.

"What?" Stan asked, still quite groggy. "Who're you?"

"Someone you apparently can't keep your eyes off of."

Sudden realization hit Stan like a ton of bricks shot off a catapult on an aircraft carrier.

"Oh shi-" he managed to get out before being pulled up to his foot and cast by Kyle.

"Ordinarily, I would punch someone who watched me jack off so hard they'd lose teeth," he hissed, "but I think your body's calcium reserves are strapped enough with that leg injury."

"Listen, about earlier..." Stan tried to say before being cut off.

"I don't wanna hear it," Kyle interrupted. "For future reference, though, consider my room off-limits to your pervy eyes between six and seven every night, OK?" The tone of his voice implied that this was by no means a suggestion, despite the twinkling of his eyes that would otherwise indicate amusement.

"OK, Kyle."

"How do you know my name?" the other asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"My mom told me...didn't she tell your family about me?"

"Well, she mentioned that she had two kids...and since you're not a butt-ugly bull-dyke look-alike that is improbably straight, and also since you're here and not Montana, I'll assume that you're Stan, not Shelley."

"My mom said my sister is a butt-ugly bull-dyke look-alike?" Stan asked, quite confused because his mother never used language like that around him.

"No, that was your dad."

"Ah."

"Mine made the mistake of giving him alcohol."

"Yeah, that's not the best of ideas."

"I noticed," Kyle said, half sarcastic, half amused. "Anyway, I came over to tell you what I wanted to tell you, and your Mom asked me to tell you that it's time for you to come inside and have a shower before bed." With that, Kyle headed not towards Stan's house, but towards the four-foot maple fence that separated the houses and half-climbed, half-jumped over it, very much impressing Stan. Looking over the fence at Stan's incredulous expression, Kyle smirked and called over to him "Jew Scouts," before heading into his house. Stan headed back to his own, happy to have finally had the opportunity to introduce himself to Kyle, smooth over the small bump, and that he managed to do it all without making a fool out of himself in the process.

He hadn't even thrown up.


	5. Suspicions

**Chapter Five - Suspicions  
****  
**Stanley Marsh was not a happy camper. The past few days, Kyle had developed an irritating - to Stan - habit of keeping his blinds closed before and after the hours of six and seven. Now, on those rare occasions where he was presented with the privilege of gazing upon Kyle, the other teen was fully clothed. This confused him, because he thought everything had been settled. Unless it was his mother or someone who'd made him keep them closed.

He was also less-than-pleased because as he mourned his loss of viewing time for Kyle's Jew-flesh, his fat friend was actually TALKING to his arch-nemesis Craig. He discovered this when he actually took his telescope and pointed in a direction other than Kyle's window and saw them standing on Craig's lawn, smiling and chatting it up as if they were best friends. He felt a surge of anger at this, and it only got worse when he saw Cartman laugh at something the other said. _He actually fucking laughed! _This was betrayal, treason, sedition. How the hell could he do this?

_Craig is the enemy. He's never been anything else. Always skating by my house and flipping me off, or trying to start a fight with me over some stupid shit._

He saw them shake hands and walk into the house, closing the door behind them. What the fuck was going on? Oh, he didn't like this one bit. It upset him so much that he actually had to get up and hobble away from the telescope. He never thought anything could make him upset enough to make him leave his beloved spyglass, but that did it. He felt an intense rage, insane in it's intensity, bubbling up inside him, threatening to consume him. He picked up the nearest thing he could lay his hands on, which happened to be a CD of latino hits from the last few years, and had the overwhelming urge to chunk it at the wall. God knows he never listened to the stupid thing anyway. His father had given it as a Christmas gift last year, for some odd reason or another. Where he got the idea that Stan listened to or even _appreciated_ that kind of thing, he had no idea.

He stopped himself suddenly and looked down at it, then over at Kyle's window, then back down again. Ideas were forming in his head, ideas that could potentially get the police called on him, but he no longer cared. He limped over and moved the telescope out of the way, then carefully moved the giant speaker sitting beside the stereo and positioned it so it was pointing directly at the offending blinds.

_Wakey, wakey, Kyle,_ he thought, putting the CD in the stereo, turning the volume up full blast (which was pretty damn loud), and setting it to a random track.

_**La Llorona**_

The opening lyrics of the song came blaring out, effectively ear raping Kyle, his family, and anyone else in the neighborhood within range. Stan figured at this volume, that was pretty much everyone within three blocks.

_**Todos me dicen el negro, llorona**_  
_**negro pero cariñoso**_  
_**Yo soy como el chile verde, llorona**_  
_**picante pero sabroso.**_

_**Ay! de mi, llorona**_  
_**llorona de ayer y hoy**_  
_**ayer maravilla fui, llorona**_  
_**y ahora ni sombra soy**_

At this point in the song, Stan believed he heard his parents yelling at him from downstairs to turn the music down. But it could have also been the background guitar, so he ignored whatever it was, and continued to wait for Kyle to come to his window or bust into Stan's room and do kinky things with him.  
_**  
Dicen que no tengo duelo, llorona**_  
_**porque no me ven llorar**_  
_**Hay muertos que no**_  
_**hacen ruido, llorona**_  
_**y es mas grande su penar**_

_**Ay! de mi, llorona**_  
_**llorona de azul celeste**_  
_**y aunque la vida me cueste, llorona**_  
_**no dejare de quererte  
**_  
It wasn't Kyle that came bursting into Stan's room, at this point. It was a very irate fatass, whose face was red - whether from running or anger he couldn't tell - and was breathing like a charging bull.

"TURN THAT GODDAMN SHIT MUSIC OFF RIGHT NOW YOU FUCKING HOMO SKATERFAG!" he roared, and Stan hastily complied. Cartman stormed over to the stereo, pulled out the disc, opened Stan's window and flung it HARD. Stan was pretty sure he saw it lodge in the side of a delivery van 300 yards away.

"Thank you," he said.

"SHUT UP!" Cartman said. "The whole neighborhood wants to kick your ass. God, when did your taste in music get even SHITTIER!?"

"The last time you could shop for clothes without going to the Big and Tall?" Stan shot back.

"I hate you so much," Cartman growled. "You going to prison is going to be a relief for all our ears."

This statement actually hurt Stan more than he'd be willing to admit. He knew that he'd never had what you might call a close relationship with Cartman. Half the time, he was usually fending off nasty comments and insults instead of enjoying the company of a friend he'd had practically since the cradle. Still, he thought there was a line that even _this _asshole wouldn't cross.

_Obviously, I was wrong._

"Fuck you, I'm innocent," he said, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.

"That's not what the cops say," Cartman growled, picking up on this and smiling wickedly. He was _feeding_ off of it, the bastard!

"Fatass, you know from experience the cops can't even read!" Stan shouted, becoming more and more angry by the second.

"You don't have to read to look at a security camera video!"

"You don't have to read to do your MOM."

"Leave Mehm out of this!"  
  
"What the fuck do you want, anyway?"  
  
"To punch you in the face for playing such shit music."

"Well I wanna punch YOU in the face for hanging out with Craig."

The expression on Cartman's face was suddenly very much like a boy who's just been caught jacking off by his mother.

"You were watching me, you douche?!" he roared.

"You know I see everything in the neighborhood!"

"Lately all you've seen is ginger cock!"

They stared each other down angrily for several minutes after this. Each one had their fists balled up, and Stan knew it was a very real possibility that they could end up fighting right there in his bedroom. If that happened, he didn't think he really stood much of a chance. Normally, he could take the fatass easily, but with his busted leg, it wouldn't take much to send him to the ground, and when that happened there was no way he'd be able to get back up again. He'd be easy pickings.

As if sensing this realization from him, Cartman smiled sadistically. He loved having power over people. That was one thing about him that had remained constant through all the years they'd been friends, and the one thing about him that Stan couldn't stand in the least. If the fatass could control you or make you squirm, it made him happy enough to explode in his pants.

"You want to know WHY I was talking to Craig, you stupid asshole?" he asked.

"Not really," Stan replied. "It was obvious enough. You guys looked awfully friendly down there, laughing and shaking hands."

"That's because I had to earn his trust, stupid," came the reply. "How can I get what I want out of him if he hates ME as much as he hates YOU?"

Stan wasn't sure whether he should believe this or not. On one hand, it certainly did make sense. Cartman could manipulate and use people like no one else he'd ever met, and if he wanted you to believe he was doing something for a specific reason, he'd make you believe it in the end. Stan remembered one time when they were kids, and he was having a birthday party at Casa Bonita down in Denver. Stan had been angry with him at the time and had decided not invite him. In order to get an invitation to the party, Cartman had feigned regret over his behaviour to get back in Stan's favor, and then he'd locked Butters away in order to get his spot.

On the other hand, though, he could have been using that very technique on Stan. He might have been sincerely friendly with Craig, and only wanted Stan to _believe_ that it was because of ulterior motives. If that was the case, though, why? What were Cartman's reasons for snuggling up to the one person in the world Stan couldn't stand?

_I can't trust this asshole,_ he thought miserably. _No matter what he says, I don't know if he's telling me the truth or manipulating me._

"Stan," Cartman said with a surprising tenderness, "listen to me. How long have we been friends?"

"Since preschool, at least, " Stan answered immediately, crossing his arms and looking away, "probably longer."

"Right," the other said soothingly. "That's a really long time. You and I, we're like best friends, you know?"

Stan didn't have the heart to tell him that he was about as far from "best friend" status as a person could get. His best friend was Wendy, and had been Wendy for as long as he could remember. He'd be willing to give Cartman the title of "lifelong friend", but he didn't trust him enough most of the time to consider him a best friend, or even a GOOD friend some days.

"Go on," he said.

"Well," Cartman continued, "I just...don't want you to think that I'd just throw all of that away. When I tell you that I'm manipulating Craig, believe me."

Stan didn't reply. He just stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

"Damnit, Stan, believe me!"

"OK, OK, fine, I believe you, Jesus..." Stan replied, even though it was a bare-faced lie. "Dunno why it means that much to you, but OK."

"Thank you, Stan. Now, I just need to punch you in the arm for that crappy song and then you can answer the Jew's stare."

_Jew's stare?_ Stan thought, spinning around to look at Kyle's window before getting sucker-punched in the shoulder with the force of a small go-kart.

"OW!" he shouted as Cartman ran out of the room chortling. "God damn your fat ass!" Rubbing his shoulder, he looked back over at Kyle, who had his phone up to his ear.

_That's odd..._ he thought, as his own started to chime the theme music from _American Idol_. Pulling it from his pocket, he answered with a tentative "Hello?"

"_I agree with that tub of lard. Your taste in music is horrible,_" Kyle remarked wryly, sitting on the windowsill and looking across the yard at Stan.

"That's not my type of music," Stan groused. "My dad gave me that, and you know how retarded he is. How'd you get this number anyway?"

"_Kosher superpowers. I could tell you, but I'd have to circumcise you and_ _force-feed you knishes_," Kyle replied, and Stan could see him stifle a laugh on his end.

"No, seriously."

"_Your mom._"

"Not cool."

"_No, I'm serious. She gave it to me when she was over here the other day. Something about how we ought to be good friends or something, so she gave me the ability to spam you with texts at any hour of the day._"

"So...you wanted to tell me ... what exactly?"

"_That you're never going to get anywhere in life blaring Mexican folk songs. Especially ones with such poor grammar._"

"So what would you suggest?"

"_REAL music. Like Disintegration, NIN, a dash of Five Finger Death Punch, and defo some Metallica. Music that makes your parents' ears bleed._"

"From the way they reacted this afternoon, I might have with that crappy Latin music," Stan said, and neither boy could hold in the laughter at this one. Once they recovered, Kyle looked at the clock across his room.

"_Well Stan, I've got to go have a shower. Remember, no peeking,_" Kyle said, grinning at Stan.

"I make no promises," Stan said, grinning back.

They hung up, and Kyle walked away from the window and began to select clothes from his dresser. Before he walked out of the room, though, he turned and gave Stan another look and a little half-wave.

_He knows I'm watching him still. He knows and he didn't draw the blinds._

Stan thought about this for a minute or two. It was far too soon after the last incident, and with too little contact between them for the two of them to really be on friendly terms, so he quickly ruled out the possibility that Kyle trusted him, and also that he was maybe teasing him. No, this was surely a test of trust. Kyle was trying him to see how trustworthy he was, and if he'd take advantage of this little "lapse" and try and sneak a peek at what he shouldn't again. Well, he'd show him. He'd prove he wasn't some deviant. He'd disassemble the whole fucking telescope and put it away, then draw his own blinds.

_No, drawing the blinds would make it seem like I'm mad at him, or maybe ignoring him._

He'd leave them open, but wouldn't peek. He'd just occupy his time with his XBOX or something. Then, in about an hour or so, he'd maybe put his telescope back up and try to use it for the purpose it was designed for: looking at stars.

_I'll pass this little test if it kills me,_ he thought, sitting down in front of his television and turning on Tony Hawk for the millionth time that summer.

--

He was roused from his sleep less than an hour later by his polyphonic ringtone blaring on the table beside him. He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but his avatar hadn't moved in quite some time. He was still standing there, one foot on the skateboard and the other on the cement of the Moscow sidewalk, waiting for his command.

"Hello?" Stan answered groggily.

_"You even took your telescope down, how very sweet,"_ the voice on the other end said, not unkindly.

_Kyle._

"Yeah, well I wanted you to know you can trust me," Stan replied. "Didn't want you thinking I was lurking off to the side, sneaking in glances anyway."

_"Guess you're not as big a pervert as I thought you were," _Kyle said, amused.

"Uuh, thanks, I think."

_"Don't get all butthurt, dude,"_ the other said. _"You know it's true. How can you watch a complete stranger jack off and NOT look like a pervert?"_

"Look," Stan said, "if we're gonna do this, how about we do it in person? I don't mind talking to you on the phone or anything, but I've had very little face-to-face contact with you."

"_I dunno,_" Kyle replied. "_My mom's not exactly your number one fan...plus the fact that it's past curfew._"

"What are you talking about? Curfew's not until 10:30," Stan replied.

"_Personally. I can't go out after eight forty-five._"

"Then what about the other night?" Stan asked. "It must have been like...ten when you woke me up."

"_I was actually taking out the garbage and took a detour_," Kyle said. "_But maybe you can catch me sometime during the day?_"

"Yeah, we'll see. I should probably go take a shower of my own."

"_I'll keep my binoculars under my bed_," Kyle replied with an audible grin. "_Fair's fair, after all._"

"Heh. Yeah, you can't peek at me either. Later, dude."

"_Later_," Kyle said before hanging up, leaving Stan to head for the shower.

--

Kyle watched from his own window as Stan gathered up a few supplies like body wash and fresh underwear and walked out of the room, hitting the light as he went. In all honesty, he wasn't sure what to make of this kid. He seemed friendly enough, sure. Hell, he seemed like a downright sweetheart. The problem was that whole Peeping Tom thing he had going on. It didn't sit well with Kyle, who treasured his privacy above all else. He got so very little of it, what with his mother making constant demands of him and controlling nearly every aspect of his life. The little moments that he got to spend in his own bubble, with no one else in it, were very important to him.

_Stan watching me do something so private is a major violation. It's...horrible._

He honestly didn't know if he even wanted to LIKE Stan, let alone KNOW him. He was willing to go so far as to call him up a couple of times and test the waters. Hell, he'd even left his blinds open intentionally, just to see what Stan would do. The boy had surprised Kyle by taking down his telescope and leaving the window completely. He hadn't expected that at all. He had even changed clothes in the bathroom, which was not his custom at all, just to be on the safe side.

_I still don't trust him. I have no reason to. Unless he does something to show me he's not the lowlife everyone says he is, I'll be watching my step around him._

That was another thing Kyle was uncomfortable about. His mother had told him about all of the things that Stan was accused of doing, and they were just horrifying. It was hard for him to believe at first that he'd actually done it. He'd had no basis for this, but he felt he had a sense about people, and his sense told him that Stan wasn't capable of doing...that thing he'd done...to that other kid. He wasn't as confident in this feeling, however, since Stan had invaded his privacy.

_If he really did what they say he did, I don't think it's a good idea to get too close._

Kyle flopped down onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He had frowned at the popcorn tiles that appeared to be standard in ceilings now-a-days, and had immediately insisted to his father that they be replaced. So far, they hadn't been, which meant Kyle was staring at a pockmarked ceiling.

_Hell, if he really did what they say he did, I probably shouldn't even have any contact with him at all. He could try to get close to people and_ _then do unto them as he did unto his friend._ This prospect genuinely worried him. Stan's mother seemed convinced that he hadn't done that, but she was his mother, that's what mothers do. On the other hand, Kyle had difficulty believing that if he was in a habit of doing such things, he would have done them to that fat kid before anybody else. Going out to check the mail his third day in town, the guy had knocked him over and hadn't even stopped to apologize or help him up.

"Out of my fucking way, Jewfag!" he'd shouted, rushing right by.

"That's very bad manners, asshole!" Kyle had shouted back.

"No point in wasting manners on ginger queerscum like you," he'd heard the kid shout without looking back.

He felt a surge of anger at the very memory of it and banished it from his mind. He had more important things to worry about right now. If he kept dwelling on that, he'd just end up in a rage, and he'd learned from experience that he didn't think very clearly when he was that upset.

_And I don't have time for all of that,_ he thought. _Things just got a whole lot more fucking complicated. Stan threw me for a loop tonight, and now I'm gonna have to spend some serious time analyzing the situation. _

He closed his eyes and began his breathing exercises. In and out, in and out. Visualize the anger as a cloud of gas sitting in his belly and push a little more of it out every time he exhaled. Picture the cloud getting smaller and smaller, replaced by clean, healthy oxygen. The more he did this, the more calm he felt. Finally, after about five minutes, he felt calm and peaceful within and allowed himself a small grin.

_Much better._

Now that _that_ was taken care of, maybe he'd be able to focus. Maybe he'd be able to come to a conclusion one way or another on the level of future contact he should have with Stanley Marsh.


	6. Bonding

**A Note From Ben: P2 decided not to add anything to the A/N this time, but I felt it was important to apologize to all of you not only for the delayed update to THIS story, but to all of the others I've left abandoned over the last few months. My internet connection has been...well, I haven't had one as of late, and I just recently managed to get it back. I intend to get together with P2 and do more work on this and also do more work on my own stories as well. Keep an eye out, y'all.**

* * *

**Chapter Six - Bonding  
**

A few days later, Kyle was mowing the lawn in front of his house. With Dad at work and Mom still busy unpacking and cleaning up the dust in the kitchen, it was left to Kyle to deal with the landscaping. After this he still had to weed the garden space and trim the shrubberies. And, though he knew Stan was probably watching him and creating a little puddle of drool on his bedroom carpet, Kyle was doing all this shirtless due to a freak heat wave that was passing through the area. The weatherman promised it would be back under eighty in a few days, but Sheila Broflovski was insistent that the grass was in need of a trim.

To make matters worse, the Broflovskis owned only a motorized push-mower. So Kyle was pushing the mower through eighty-nine degree heat, under a hot beating sun, and the sunscreen Sheila had slathered on him was dripping into his eyes. And he was probably being spied upon, while struggling to make the mower scythe through four-inch high grass.

_I wish Ike would invent a robot lawn mower_, he thought. _That prep school has a robotics lab...he can nick a few parts and make this easier on everyone involved. But especially me. So I could be inside, sipping lemonade and watching CSPAN and NOT being ogled. Inside...in the nice...cool...70 degree house...Goddamnit, why won't this crabgrass go emo and cut itself!?_

He took a minute to wipe the sweat from his eyes with his forearm and chanced a peek up at Stan's window. From where he was standing, coupled with the angle of the sun reflecting off the glass, he couldn't see anything at all, but there was no doubt in his mind he was up there. He tried not to think of what he was DOING up there. Hopefully not...pleasuring himself. God, it made him feel dirty just to think of someone watching him, having sexual fantasies.

_It's so...Norman Bates._

He pushed forward and put thoughts of Stan out of his head, intent on finishing as quickly as possible. He fucking hated doing this shit, but he supposed he was lucky somehow. At least his mother didn't have him out here clipping the grass with a pair of scissors, blade by miserable blade. At least he wasn't using one of those sorry manual push mowers that had no motor at all. Either of those scenarios made this work seem a little bit easier, though not much. He still felt like he was sweating away every drop of moisture in his body, and the sun was relentless against his back and shoulders.

He reached the fence line on the far side of the property and turned the mower around. He was now headed directly toward Stan's house.

_I still feel so conflicted over him_, he thought grimly. _I mean, on one hand, his constant staring creeps me out seriously. On the other hand, though, I guess I can kinda understand that. I mean, he's all alone in that house most of the time, and if he does have company, it's usually that fat fucker, who only adds to his misery. Someone new in the neighborhood must be a really exciting idea for him._, he thought, bringing a wry grin to his face as he turned the mower and started on another row. The flash of movement from Stan's house caught his eye, and he looked over to see the door open and the tips of a pair of crutches poke out, followed by Stan. He headed down the sidewalk before turning his head to look at Kyle. The other boy was impressed to see that Stan was able to stare at his sweaty body while still moving with his crutches. Until he swung himself into the mailbox and fell on his ass with a thud.

Especially someone as sexy as me

_I should probably go help him out_, Kyle thought, before succumbing to his more natural reaction and laughing. After a few moments of giggling at Stan's expense, Kyle let the mower shut down and headed over to help Stan.

"You OK?" he asked, offering his hand to help pull Stan up, which the other boy accepted.

"I was going to get the mail...I ordered something with Mom's credit card that I didn't want her to know about...and it should be in today."

"Well, you are a very naughty boy, aren't you?" The tone with which Kyle asked this question made Stan flush scarlet.

"It was just a CD..." he murmered, pulling the mail from the box and looking through for his illicitly-gained prize, finally finding it near the end.

"At least tell me it was a good one," Kyle said, helping him towards the house again, picking up his crutches on the way.

"The one _The Cure_ album I don't have yet."

"Get out, you like _The Cure_?" Kyle asked, opening the front door and leading Stan towards his couch.

"Of course, dude, their album _Disintegration_ is -"

"THE BEST ALBUM EVER!" both teens finished in unison.

They looked at each other and smiled. Kyle found this a pleasant surprise. His previous experiences with Stan hadn't been exactly what you'd call treasured memories, and to find that they actually had something in common, actually had something that they could smile together over...well, it wasn't what he was expecting at all. Besides, after that horrible Latin song Stan had blared at his house, Kyle wasn't sure what kind of musical tastes his new neighbor had. Someone who'd play something like that might be likely to play garbage like Minnie Ripperton or Vanilla Ice, and that was a little more than Kyle was willing to tolerate.

"It's nice to finally meet another Robert Smith fan," Stan said, bringing him out of his thoughts. "Cartman says he's a fag."

"What the fuck does that fat asshole know?" Kyle shot back.

"Wow," came the reply, "you talk like you've known him for years."

"There are people like him all over the place."

"Really?"

"No," Kyle said with a smile, "I was lying. He's honestly got to be one of the worst examples of humanity I've ever had the misfortune to meet. We can only _hope_ there aren't others like him."

Stan smiled back at him warmly and glimpsed into his eyes. They were a gorgeous bright green that seemed to sparkle in the light like sapphires. He felt himself begin to swoon under that gaze, as if it were some kind of intoxicating drug. He had no idea how long he sat there, staring longingly at Kyle, a goofy grin on his face, but it was obviously long enough, because he saw the smile disappear from Kyle's face and heard him clear his throat rather sternly.

"Sorry," Stan said, looking away. He could feel the blood rushing to his face and he suddenly couldn't think of anything more adequate to say than that. He often felt that he had the charisma of Cartman at an all-you-can-eat buffet when it came to romance, or playing it cool.

"...Why are you always staring at me?" Kyle asked, and Stan gulped. He couldn't come straight out and say _"Because you're the closest thing to Adonis that anybody's ever going to get to see and I just want to do everything to you..."_ because that would be even more tactless than staring at him like a retard.

"Because you're...uh...because you're..." he began, faltering. Kyle sighed.

"Because I'm a sexy beast and you just want to have your way with me?"

"No?"

"Well is that a question or an answer?" Kyle asked, cocking his left eyebrow in confusion.

"Both?"

"No, not both!"

"Oh. Then yes."

"Figured." Kyle broke eye contact and flopped back onto Stan's sofa, staring around the living room wall at all the family pictures lining the wall, and Kyle could not for the life of him figure out why Stan was the one who was in trouble with the law. If he would have put money on anyone in that family to have those kinds of problems, he would have pegged the daughter. Not only was she fuglier than a 54 year old saggy-breasted retard lesbian, she also clearly had anger problems, and probably got into more than a few scuffles with Stan. Actually...it looked like her biceps were more defined than his.

"So...ah...I got _Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me_..." Stan said, trying to engage Kyle back into conversation.

"You didn't have that one!?" the other boy replied, more than a little incredulous. "How could you not have that one!?"

"I couldn't find it...at least not for anything less than twice what I could afford...until now. I had 'Just Like Heaven' downloaded, but that's not the whole album by far..."

"You're damn right it's not," Kyle snorted derisively. "Put it on...or else I'm going to steal your crutches and put on a soap opera."

Stan paled. "You're kidding, right?"

"Hell no I'm not kidding. First off, Jews don't kid. It's not in our DNA. Second, I have developed an odd addiction to _As The World Turns_ lately, and I wouldn't be beneath making you watch it while explaining it all to you."

"I don't wanna watch a _fuckin'_ soap opera on _fuckin'_ CB-_fuckin'_-S!" Stan exclaimed suddenly, jumping up to put the new CD in the stereo.

"OK, one f-bomb in that sentence would have sufficed..." Kyle responded.

"No, it wouldn't have," Stan replied. "You're talking about _As The World Turns_. Everyone knows the best soap opera is _Days Of Our Lives_."

"Like sands through the damn hourglass, huh?" came the retort. "I never would have pegged you as a soap watcher."

Stan didn't reply right away, as he seemed to be having a problem keeping his balance while trying to remove the irritating cellophane wrapping from the CD case with his fingernails. Kyle knew it was probably wrong on so many levels to laugh at a struggling person on crutches, but he couldn't help it. The tittering escaped from his throat before he could help it, and Stan looked back at him with a rather nasty look on his face.

"Funny, is it?" he asked.

"A little," Kyle admitted, getting up and walking over to him. "Here, give me that."

In a flash, he pulled a switchblade knife from his pants pocket, flipped it open, and slashed the wrapping in half. With just as much dexterity, he grabbed the two halves, pulled them apart, then threw the case back into Stan's waiting hands.

"It's not rocket science," he said with a smile, "but I guess I shouldn't expect too much from a _Days_ fan."

Stan rolled his eyes in a good-natured manner. Apparently, once Kyle got started on a topic he deemed conversation worthy, he didn't stop going on about it until he was good and ready to stop. It was kind of cute in a way, but then he found _everything_ about Kyle cute as hell, from his fiery red curls to his full, pouty lips that looked irresistibly kissable.

"And what the hell is wrong with _Days_?" he asked.

"Nothing," Kyle answered, "except that it's on at the same time as _As The World Turns_, and _that_ show has hot gay boys in it."

"Are you trying to tell me _Days_ doesn't?" Stan asked as the first chords of the album wafted into the room.

"OK, I'll give you that Max and Nick have a certain...chemistry, but Luke and Noah are officially gay with each other...and YouTube has the clips of the kissing to prove it!" Kyle replied.

"How would you know about Max and Nick?" Stan asked curiously, since both shows were on at the same time, as Kyle had pointed out, and Stan didn't think he would really miss an episode to watch a rival show.

"TiVo and fanfiction," Kyle replied non-chalantly.

"Oh." Stan shut up for a while, relaxing and listening to the music. "Fanfiction!?"

"You're damn right fanfiction. It's a good way to channel excess sexual energy and/or make up for any lack of actual pornography on one's computer, if the writer uses enough adjectives and you've got an active imagination."

"Oh Good God," Stan replied. "You write porn with other people's characters..."

"Yeah, basically," Kyle confirmed. "But just the hot ones, and I make sure there's plot. And little mysteries that I don't give the readers much if any clues to, much less answers, and just cackle like a mad scientist when they send me little notes and tell me in no uncertain terms how frustrated they are with me."

"That's so cruel!" Stan said, highly amused by the whole idea. "Would you be willing to let me see any of it?"

"Sure," Kyle said, brightening at Stan's interest in his work. "Do you have a computer?"

"Who doesn't have a computer these days?" Stan scoffed. "Come on, it's in my room upstairs."

He rose slowly to his feet and hobbled across the room toward the stairs. Kyle followed slowly behind him, not really sure that following him up to his bedroom was such a good idea. After what he did...well, he still wasn't entirely convinced that Stan wasn't dangerous. Still, he had the advantage with Stan being on crutches and all. If he decided to try and get stupid while they were up there, he would have no problem fighting him off.

After several minutes of wobbling and hoisting himself up each and every step, they arrived on the second floor and Stan made his way quickly to his own room. Kyle's first impression upon entering was that Stan needed to learn how to organize his possessions, and that food wrappers belonged in a trash can and not strewn carelessly about the room. It wasn't a total disaster area, but compared to the surroundings Kyle was used to living in, it was completely unacceptable.

"Sorry about my room," Stan said, seeing the disapproval on his face. "I've never been a neat freak like you."

"Forget about it," Kyle said, removing a dirty sock from the computer chair with a sneer of disgust. "I've known a lot of guys who keep their rooms like this. It's apparently one of those things about being a teenager that I never understood."

Stan opened his mouth to ask Kyle just how many bedrooms he'd been in, but didn't think that the humor in the statement would be appreciated just yet. Kyle was still being very cautious with him, he could tell, and something like that might be easily misunderstood and add to the growing tension exponentially.

"Now..." Kyle started, reaching for the mouse. He stopped suddenly as his eyes had falled upon a picture of a blonde-haired boy sitting beside the monitor. He'd never seen him around before, though he'd heard enough stories to know exactly who he was. This was a photograph of Kenny McCormick, and judging by where he'd found it and the ornate frame the picture was in, this boy held a very special place in Stan's heart.

"Oh," Stan said sadly, looking away. "Yeah."

"Good friend of yours?"

"You could...say that..."

"So...why haven't I seen him before?"

"Uh...he's not really...able to get over here," Stan said, rather lamely, hoping Kyle would be satisfied with this explanation and drop the subject.

_That's an understatement..._ Kyle's mind scoffed. _He's not able to get over here...pft, I'd like to see anybody be able to get anywhere after what happened to that guy._

"Anyway, like I was saying," Kyle said, clicking on to Stan's browser and pulling up a website with practiced ease, "This is where I have all my fanfics. As you can see," he said, pointing to what Stan assumed were rather high review counts, "They're fairly popular."

"Click one open," Stan encouraged him, sitting down after Kyle clicked one open and vacated the chair. _An ATWT one_, he noted with chagrin as he started to read.

"_Luke came up to Noah in the WOAK newsroom and whispered in the other's ear. Whatever his statement was, Noah was shocked enough by it to allow himself to be pulled into a windowless, vacant office..._" Stan read aloud. "You call THIS plot!?"

"No, not that, you douche...that's a little something to tease the fangirls into squeeing and reviewing and sticking around in the hope of more. Read on..." Kyle said, indicating with his hands that Stan needed to scroll down, past the fairly graphic description of exactly how Luke and Noah fucked, who topped, who bottomed, how much the bottom loved what the top did to him despite the more than reasonable amount of pain caused in the process, to the end of the first chapter where he found his jaw hanging in shock.

"You had him KIDNAPPED!?" Kyle was smirking.

"Damn right," he said. "Good for more than a few chapters of angst, and then throw in a couple chapters from the abducted one's POV on how terrified he is about what's going to happen to him and how much he misses the other, then have the rescue, and then the obligatory celebratory mansex."

"...And people READ this?" Stan asked, incredulously.

"100,000 hits as of yesterday, and I haven't even gotten the chapter with the celebratory mansex posted yet."

"Fangirls are fucking crazy..." Stan said, shaking his head.

"Oh, you should have seen the reviews when I got around to Luke-whump."

"Whump?"

"Abuse, basically. Not sexual, just getting his ass kicked by his captor. I got more than a few marriage proposals, and found out that apparently whump gives some fangirls sexual pleasure."

Stan bookmarked the site, then clicked the window closed and turned his attention to Kyle.

"You really are an amazing person," he said. "You can write, you can work your ass off, you like _The Cure_..."

"...'M not that amazing," Kyle replied, blushing a little.

"Yeah, you are," Stan said, rising to his feet and limping over to him. He saw Kyle's grin vanish, and the boy backed up a step. Okay, that was too much. The compliment he had appreciated, and the genuine interest in his writing he had appreciated, but Rule Number One was apparently KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"Sure," Kyle said, his eyes flicking to Kenny's photograph ever-so-briefly. "Sure you didn't."

"Hey," Stan objected, picking up on this. "Wait a minute. What do you know about..."

The sound of the doorbell downstairs cut him off and he swore rather loudly. He made his way over to the window and looked down at the front stoop. Craig stood there, looking up at him with the same nasty expression on his face that he always wore around everyone. When he saw Stan's head appear, he immediately flipped him off.

"What do you want, Craig?" he called down.

"Your testicles in a fucking jar," Craig called back up.

"Sorry, I'm rather attached to them," Stan replied, "or rather, _they're_ attached to _me_."

"Go fuck yourself, Marsh!" the other boy retorted, flipping the bird again. "I just came by to tell you that I lost my virginity last night, making me the first one of the two of us to do that."

"So?"

"So that's another point for me, fuckhead," Craig gloated. "You lose again."

Stan grabbed a paperweight from the computer desk and threw it out the window at him. Craig jumped out of the way and it smashed into pieces on the concrete stoop below.

"Get the fuck out of here!" he shouted. "Stay the hell away from me!"

He pulled his head in and slammed the window shut, angrier than he'd been in a long time. The nerve of that asshole, actually coming over to gloat over something so stupid. Stan wasn't worried about losing his virginity, and he had certainly never entered into any competition with anyone to see who could do it first. That was as childish as it was immoral and foul.

"Sorry about that, Kyle," Stan said, turning around. "He likes to..."

But Kyle was no longer there. He'd gone home without saying a word.


	7. Passing Notes and Judgment

**Chapter Seven - Passing Notes and Judgment**

_"Hi, this is Kyle. I'm not available to take your call right now, but if you'll leave me a message, I'll gladly get back to you...unless this is Stan. I don't know how you didn't get the hint after I ignored your first fifty calls: I am NOT going to pick up for you. Stop calling."__  
__  
_Stan disconnected the call and threw the phone in rage. It landed in a pile of dirty clothes on the other side of the room, thus saving him from having to come up with a way to explain to his mother why his cell was broken. Instead of taking this as a cue to stop pushing his luck, however, he threw open the window and stuck his head out, fixing Kyle's house with the angriest glare he could muster.

"Hey!" he screamed. "I just want you to know I'm really, REALLY mad at you right now!"

He sat there, staring over at Kyle's open window for several minutes. Why the hell was he acting this way? What had he done to offend him so badly?

"I mean REALLY mad!"

He thought about repeating his previous stunt with the music, but had his doubts as to how well it would work a second time. Kyle seemed so  
intent on blocking him out, he'd probably just shut the window and call the cops.

_More trouble with the damn law is just what I fucking need.__  
__  
_He looked down at the nearby CD he'd planned on using, entitled _Rollercoaster of Love: Cheesiest Disco Hits Ever_, and threw it on the pile of clothes with his cell phone._  
_

_This is getting to be ri-goddamn-diculous_ he thought darkly, fuming at Kyle and his always-having-his-blinds-closed-lately and his love of _As The World Turns_ and cheesey cliched fanfiction plots and his massive Internets popularity and his not-liking-Stan. The latest was what really irked him. Was it too much to ask to have ONE decent person live on his street?

Flopping down on his bed, he let out a sigh. He was bored. And he wanted somebody to talk to. More to the point, he wanted to talk more with Kyle. But he wasn't replying to his e-mails, he wasn't calling him back, and yelling obviously wasn't going to do anything. He couldn't well go over there and ask to talk to Kyle, mainly because it would take an hour just to get over there and then he'd be tired, and he didn't have the capacity to throw a grappling hook over to Kyle's room and scoot across it like a Special Ops Ninja to accost the boy, so he was really left with very few options.

Looking around his room, Stan tried to find something to do to occupy his time. Or make Kyle talk to him. Because that would be a far better way to occupy his time. And may lead to other ways to occupy his time, as from reading his stories, Stan had determined that Kyle would probably rather wild in bed. And interested in trying a lot of things. Or maybe he had already tried them, and liked them, and would like to let Stan try them. Or would like to try doing them TO Stan.

He was getting excited just thinking about it.

Movement from Kyle's house caught his attention and brought him out of his thoughts. He looked over and saw the shades raise up. He flashed Kyle a grin when they briefly made eye contact, but the other boy simply turned his back on him and retreated to parts of his room that were beyond the range of Stan's vision. Stan wasn't sure what he was doing, or why he raised the blinds if he was really so intent on giving him the cold shoulder; all he knew for sure was that this was his big chance. If he could get Kyle to listen to him for even a minute or two, he might have a chance to fix everything.

"Kyle!" he called.

No answer. He was probably listening to his iPod and pretending like Stan wasn't there. Well, he'd fix him.

* * *

True to Stan's prediction, Kyle was on his bed with his headphones in his ears when the first paper airplane flew through his open window. He ground his teeth together in frustration and tried to disregard the fact that it was laying there in the middle of his clean floor. He fucking HATED having paper on the floor, or anywhere else other than in neat little piles for that matter. Paper was meant for recording information, and information should be organized, not throw haphazardly about the room.

_It isn't there. It isn't there. It isn't there..._

He lasted less than a minute before he caved in and got up to get the offending clutter off of his pristine bedroom floor. He snatched it up, unfolded it, and gave the message within a quick once-over.  
_  
Dear Kyle:__  
__  
Can you please tell me why you're so mad? I really like you and don't want you to hate me like this_._  
__  
-Stan_

Kyle rolled his eyes and walked to the window. Stan was standing there, grinning stupidly at him. He took a glance down at the lawn below him and saw that the airplane that violated the sanctity of his bedroom had not been the first. Stan had apparently tried at least a dozen times to send the same message, but had failed repeatedly to get one in the window. These irritating little planes were all over the grass, giving their home a very white trash look.

"So you want an answer, huh?" Kyle growled, scrawling an answer on a piece of paper. "I'll give you a fucking answer, all right."

* * *

The return note flew smack-dab into the back of Stan's neck, making him jump up with a startled yelp because of the very fine point it had been folded to. Once he turned around and saw what had attacked him, he excitedly unfolded it and began to read, only to flip his smile on its head as soon as he read the first word.

_Jackass (aka Stan) --_

_What makes you think I hate you? You're only a creepy perv who likes staring at me like a drooling idiot any time you get the chance..._

_OK, yes, we have a few things in common. But on the other hand, you're an alleged criminal. Even with a busted leg, I'm a bit wary of you..._

_Oh, and one last thing...LEARN HOW TO THROW A DAMN PAPER AIRPLANE! For Moses' sake, there's even a guide on Wikipedia...that it took you a full 13 tries to land your note in my room is just shameful._

_XOXO_

_Kyle_

To be honest, at this point, Stan was quite confused. Kyle was apparently, amongst other things, a master of sending mixed signals. At various points in the note, he had expressed a series of seemingly conflicting emotions, ranging from hatred to disgust to even-headedness to contemplative to hatred again, and ending with hugs and kisses...

For some reason, Stan couldn't help but hear Cartman's voice in his mind, ranting anti-Semitically about how "All dirty Jews are filthy teasing bastards and never give you a straight answer." But then he felt bad because you're just Not Supposed to Think Those Things.

"I'll write him another one!" Stan muttered, pulling another piece of paper out of his notebook. "We'll clear this up once and..."

Before he had a chance to even do so much as pull out his pen, another paper airplane flew through the window and barely missed hitting him in the eye. He snatched it up and unfolded it as quickly as his hands would allow without tearing the paper.  
_  
Don't even think about sending another one.__  
-Kyle_

"Shit!"

"What the hell are you yelling about, fag?" Cartman asked, walking in without knocking.

"Oh, no," Stan groaned.

"Nice to see you, too, asshole!"

Stan looked over at his morbidly obese friend, who amazingly enough appeared as though he'd somehow managed to gain more weight since the last time he'd visited, and rolled his eyes. He knew Cartman didn't deserve to get this, really. Sure, he was usually a douchbag prickfuck asshole who manipulated, blackmailed and intimidated everyone around him into doing things his way, but he hadn't had anything to do with Kyle being so stubborn and cold-hearted.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm just having problems right now."

"That ginger fag still not letting you suck his...?"

"Dude!" Stan cried, cutting him off.

"Well," Cartman replied defensively, "that's what's had your panties in a knot the last couple of weeks or so. Why should I think it should be any different now?"

Stan turned and looked toward Kyle's window. The redhead was not in sight. He'd apparently gone back to his bed, satisfied that his answer had gotten the point across.

_Or maybe he's hiding from Fatass_...

"Bite me," he grumbled.

"Fuck no, you'd probably get off on it."

"Not if it was you!" Stan shot back. "God, you couldn't even get a drunk girl off, much less me."

"Not from the way you've been obsessing lately," Cartman replied with a roll of his eyes. "You've probably got so many whore-moans built up in you that you'd even let Craig get you off."

"You shut your fucking mouth!" Stan yelled, wheeling as best as he could, ultimately failing and falling with an "oof" on his bed. "God, don't even insinuate something like that!"

"Ey! I'll insinuate whatever Ah want, hippeh fag!" Cartman was seething. "God, you just need to hobble your faggy ass over there, climb up the side of his house, break into his room, tie him to the bed, gag him, strip him naked, and just, get it out of your system."

"...That is the STUPIDEST idea you've ever had!!" Stan exclaimed, mouth agape. Even though the idea itself was hot, he was pretty sure that would be illegal too. "Besides, I'd probably fall off the ladder or portcullis or whatever and break my OTHER leg."

"Pft, you obviously have no experience breaking into people's houses," the other said, pulling a snack-sized bag of Cheesy Poofs from his pocket and ripping into it.

"That's because I'm not a criminally-minded sociopath like you!"

"That's why you're in trouble with the law?"

Stan had the sudden urge to raise up one crutch and bash him in the side of the head with it. Every time they got into an argument, the fat prick always managed to bring his legal troubles into it. He loved throwing it back in his face, just to see the fear and uncertainty on his face, and every time he did it Stan honestly felt that this time he would banish him from his life. This time he'd refuse to forgive and forget. Of course, he never did, mostly because he was one of the few remaining friends left in his miserable little world.

"Don't bring that up again," he hissed. "I'm fucking warning you."

Perhaps it was the look on his face, perhaps it was the tone of his voice, or perhaps whatever decency Cartman had left in his soul had momentarily come to the surface, but Stan's warning worked; Cartman backed off.

"All right, all right," he said.

"I don't know what to do," Stan said, looking out the window and talking more to himself than Cartman, whom he was trying desperately to ignore. "Why won't he give me a chance?'

"Maybe you're not trying the right tactic?" the other suggested. When Stan looked at him, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, he continued. "You need to do something that actually appeals to him. Instead of just staring at his Jewass and throwing paper all over his grass, why not do something nice for him? Take what you know about him and come up with a plan to get at his soft little underbelly."

"But that's not what I'm after..." Stan said, immediately regretting this statement because Cartman gave him a disgusted look. "But...he has all of _The Cure_ albums...has a poster of Robert Smith...I don't watch nearly enough As The World Turns..."

"The ginger fag watches _As The World Turns_!?" Cartman interrupted.

"He likes Luke and Noah..."

"Euch," Cartman said. "Everyone knows the best soap opera is -"

"_Days of Our Lives_, I know," Stan said, before Cartman glared at him again.

"I was going to say _One Life to Live_. GOD, what the hell is wrong with you, Stan?"

"Goddamnit, that's not the point..." Stan said, muttering. "I suppose I could make him a Nuke fan-video...just download some clips from YouTube and ...and add some cool effects with iMovie..."

"iMovie!?"

"Yes, Fatass, iMovie. I fucking loathe Windows Movie Maker. It's horrible. HORRIBLE. Anyway...get it all done, burn it to a disc, and have Mom put it in his mailbox in the morning."

"See, now THERE'S using that small skater brain of yours," Cartman said quite condescendingly. "Get to it. I've got to go stop by Craig's house and tape Red Racer while he goes to buy a new gerbil-rat-thing with Tweek."

Stan felt that same suspicion suddenly flare up in him. No matter how he tried to believe in Cartman's reasons for spending time with Craig, he simply could not get over the feeling that something wasn't quite what it appeared. Cartman was hiding something or Craig was, and every time he saw them together or heard about one of their little meetings, it made him more certain of it.

* * *

The next day, Kyle was sitting in the living room watching television when movement outside caught his eye. He turned from his favorite soap opera and peeked out the drapes to see what was up, and could not believe his eyes. Stan had somehow managed to hobble out of his house and was currently fucking around with his mailbox. Was he fucking stealing mail? No, his opinion of Stan wasn't as high as it could have been, but he didn't think that Stan was actually pathetic enough to go through their mail and garbage to learn about him.

_It looks like he's...putting something in it._

Stan had removed what looked like a small, carefully wrapped gift with a bow on it from his pocket and was actually placing it in their mailbox. Kyle found this rather amusing and couldn't help but chuckle. What the hell was that crazy fucking cripple up to THIS time? Was this a bribe? Perhaps a feeble attempt at getting back into his favor? He couldn't help but think of guys who tried to impress girls by sending them chocolates, flowers, and gay little stuffed bears. God, if he went out there and found a box of chocolates in his mailbox, he'd probably go over and break Stan's other leg, simply as retaliation against such a cliche move.

_Even Stan can do better than that._

Kyle waited for a commercial break to head outside and retreive whatever it was. As he did so, he was not so inaudibly cursing Carly for fucking up Holden and Lily and thus making Luke's home life shit. Of course, it did give him some spectactular material to work with, and if the writers had half a brain among them, they would get Noah to give him some TLC. Parents having marital crises always made for delicious angst. Especially when you're a guy concerned for the effect it'll have on your little sisters. Poor guy just needs to cuddle up with his BF and have a cry...and then some buttsex.

Pulling the present from the mailbox, Kyle took it inside to catch the end of a promo for the upcoming Guiding Light episode, contemplating unwrapping it then and there, but decided to wait until after the show to do so. Of course, as soon as it ended, with credits rolling and half the screen devoted to a tiny commercial about Woombas, Kyle bounded up the stairs to unwrap the gift, somewhat confused when it turned out to be a rather non-descript DVD-R. The only marking on the disc was his name, written in block letters with a black marker.

_...OK, I'll bite._ Kyle opened the case, removing the disc and opening the CD/DVD slot on his computer, dropping the disc in and waiting for the content to load. Kyle was quite surprised at the file's title - ATWT with DCFC - and decided he simply had to see what the hell the boy next door had come up with.

He recognized the song, of course. Nobody who listened to a rock station lately could fail to not identify it within the first few seconds. Of course, Death Cab for Cutie did have a rather...unconventional sound. The song was "I Will Possess Your Heart." Even given the video's subject - Kyle's soap OTP and their sometimes-rocky relationship - Kyle couldn't help but wonder if Stan fully appreciated the irony of using that song to try and woo him.

_He even used iMovie..._

He sat through Stan's handiwork, impressed by his professionalism. He seemed to have a real knack for making amateur videos. He didn't resort to using cheesy effects or flashy filters to catch the attention of the viewer. Stan seemed to understand that using clips and music together was much more effective- and far less annoying- than videos that made excessive use of subtitles, sepia tones, and ridiculous fonts. There were far too many videos, especially on YouTube, that were just...cheesy.

"This is...really good," Kyle said.

Still, he couldn't let that excuse Stan's often unsettling behavior. So he had talent editing movies, big deal. It could very easily be nothing more than a clever ploy. It would be a simple matter of using personal information on his personal interests, which Kyle had so foolishly given, to try and soften him up. Very much like a guy who wants to impress the head cheerleader, so he tells her he likes country music, too, even though the very sound of it makes him sick.

_Well, I'm not so gullible. It's going to take a lot more than this to prove your sincerity to me.__  
_

* * *

Stan was sitting at his computer, reading over Kyle's fiction for what seemed like the hundredth time, when his cell phone rang, causing his monitor to go completely apeshit. He snatched it up off the desk and gave the screen a quick glance. His heart leaped when he saw "KYLE" displayed there. Had it worked? Was Kyle finally willing to ease up on him and give him a chance? There was only one way to find out...

"Hello?"

_"Nice video, Stan,"_ Kyle said.

"Thanks," Stan replied with a grin. "I thought you might like that."

_"It's not enough, though,"_ Kyle continued. _"As kind as that was, and as kind as it is of you to read my stories over and over...and OVER...and send my hit count through the roof, I can't forget certain things about you."_

Stan was shocked. He couldn't be serious. Even after all Stan had done to extend a pure and honest hand of friendship to him, he STILL had hangups about past events that he, in all honesty, probably knew very little about?

"What more do you want?"

_"Well, for starters, a jury of your peers to proclaim your innocence."_

"GODDAMNIT I DIDN'T FUCKING DO THAT!" Stan erupted, not caring at this point that it was Kyle he was venting on, just neededing to vent. "I wasn't anywhere NEAR that place. There's no good goddamn reason for me to have, and they don't have a SHRED of evidence that says I did!"

Kyle stayed quiet, deciding not to remind Stan that the prosecution had at least enough evidence to secure an indictment from the grand jury in the matter. Though they may not have a good motive...

"I'm INNOCENT! Why doesn't anybody believe me!?"

_"Oh come on, I'm sure SOMEBODY believes you..."_

"Bullshit." Stan was seething. "I haven't seen or heard from my lawyer since my arraignment. Cartman says he believes me but I can trust him about as much as I can trust my sister not to be a bitch."

_"What about your Mom? She didn't sound very convinced of the charges when she was over here..."_

"Well duh, she's my Mom."

_"She's still someone who believes you."_

"But she's obligated to."

_"Doesn't make it any less valid...and I know plenty of Mom's who wouldn't be like that, my own included. If I was accused of anything like what you are I'd be homeless and disowned within thirty seconds."_

"Nuh uh."

_"Dude. You haven't met my Mom. She's like the Jewish version of Pat Robinson and Jerry Falwell and James Dobson. If those three were combined into one person, it would be my mother."_

"Damn, dude, that's pretty fucked up."

_"Yeah it's fucked up. So...uh...you're gonna need to do better to convince me you're not a Dangerous Felon. Just a hint, but blowing up at people who call you on the phone isn't a good way to do that."_

"All right..."  
_  
"I'm hanging up now."_

"No, wait!" Stan cried. "Please, just hear me out. Let me tell MY side of this story before you pass judgment on me. Please."

There was a long silence lasting several seconds. Stan knew this was his last chance. If Kyle hung up the phone at this point, it would be over. He wouldn't get any more chances to prove himself or show that he wasn't a lowlife thug. If he heard a click, he knew that would mean that Kyle would be avoiding him like the plague from that moment on. This made the tension that much worse and made those few seconds seem like hours. Everything he'd worked for, all of his dreams about a possible future with Kyle, was hanging in the balance.

_Please don't hang up. Please don't hang up._

_"Okay, Stan,"_ Kyle said finally, causing him to breathe a sigh of relief. _"You've got five minutes."_

"Um," Stan said uncertainly. He knew this next request was pushing his luck, but he knew he had to try. "I'd actually...prefer to tell you in person. I don't suppose you'd be willing to come over here?"

_"Puh,"_ the other scoffed. _"No!"_

"Oh, come on," he pleaded. "Have I done anything to hurt you yet? All I want to do is explain myself. Besides, my parents are home, so it's not like we'd be here alone."

Stan heard him hiss into the phone in a very frustrated way. He was getting on Kyle's last nerve, he could tell, but he knew that if he could just get a few minutes to explain everything, all this damage would be undone.

_Well, I'm HOPING so, anyway._

_"I'll make a deal with you, Stan,"_ Kyle said. _"I'll go over there and listen to whatever you have to say. If you don't tell me anything that changes my mind, we cease all contact. No phone calls, no FUCKING paper airplanes, no email. If my opinion of you doesn't change by the time I walk back out your front door, you forget that I even exist. Agreed?"_

"Fair enough."

* * *

Five minutes later, Stan heard a knock at his door. He wasted no time in hobbling over and opening it with a smile. The red-headed boy on the other side did not return it. He simply breezed past him and settled onto the couch.

"Let's skip the formalities," Kyle said. "Just say what you have to say."

Stan sat down across from him and took a deep breath. He hadn't bothered rehearsing any of this, because he wanted everything he said to come straight from the heart. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom in such a thing, because now that the time had come, his mind was completely blank. He knew he should probably start with Kenny, but the words simply would not come. Everything in his head was in a jumble, and all he could come up with was "Kenny...hurt...not my fault...Kenny friend".

"I'm waiting, Stan," Kyle prompted, the annoyed look on his face becoming more pronounced.

Stan took his beloved picture of Kenny in his hands and looked at it. He let Kyle's presence fade away as he focused on his most favorite memories of one of his closest friends.  
_  
"Kenny?"__  
__  
"Mmm?"__  
__  
"We've done a lot of stuff together."__  
__  
"Yeah, so?"__  
__  
"Do you love me?"_

No, not that one. That one was painful. Something a little happier.  
_  
"No matter what happens, Stan, you'll always be my friend."__  
__  
"Really?"__  
__  
"Totally dude. I couldn't ask for a better friend than you._"

That one always choked him up, but it did the trick. Suddenly, he knew exactly what to say. He'd tell Kyle the simple, honest truth about Kenny. If he did that and Kyle's opinion still remained the same, then Stan figured he probably didn't want to know the guy anyway. After all, how stone-hearted can one person be?

"Kenny wasn't quite my best friend," Stan began, "because my best friend has been Wendy for as long as I can remember. That didn't stop him from coming damn close, though. He was...everything to me. He was a damn good friend, a great listener...and a gentle lover."

"Whoa," Kyle said, raising his hands. "You didn't need to share that with me."

"We didn't fuck or anything!" Stan argued defensively. "There were times we were really intimate, though. There was a time I thought that he actually loved me in that way, but...he was just experimenting. That's what he called it. 'Experimenting'. It was never more to him than a simple childhood game. He broke it off as gently as he could, but it still hurt. I don't think I've ever cried so much, even after I broke up with Wendy back in elementary school.

"Afterwards, he and I remained as close as two people could be. We did just about everything together, and I came to him with just about everything. I would have...done anything for Kenny. I would have _died_ for Kenny."

Kyle didn't say anything, so Stan went on.

"I loved Kenny more than I can ever tell you, and to be accused of committing such an unspeakable act against him absolutely sickens me. I never would have harmed a hair on his wonderful head. I wouldn't have been able to even...even if I'd wanted to- WHICH I DIDN'T! It just wasn't in me to cause him any kind of pain."

"But...your Mom says you haven't been to visit him in the hospital..." Kyle tried.

"I can't even bear to look at him...They told me in explicit, gruesome detail what had happened to him when they were interrogating me...showed me pictures...I had nightmares." Stan looked haunted.

"Whoever it was...they knew just how to stage it to make it look like it was me. The weapon was a skateboard. At least, the one that finally knocked him out was a skateboard. There was also a knife...and a wrench...and he was sodomized with SOMETHING, they don't even know what...and they found one of my hats by his body."

Kyle could see that Stan was on the verge of being sick. If his dad hadn't argued more than a few murder cases, he would be too. As it was, he was unsettled, but not sickened. "So...it's not because you're not concerned about him..."

"God no! I'm totally concerned about him...and I miss him terribly. But I can't see him...Mom doesn't know this, but his family took out an order of protection against me on the advice of the prosecutor, complete dick of a man, but that's beside the point, and I'm not allowed within 10 yards of him until after the trial."

"That's gotta be hard for you," Kyle said, somewhat unhappy with himself with the concern his voice radiated. This wasn't his problem dammit, and he was supposed to be _mad_ at Stan, not feeling sorry for him.

"You're damn right it's hard for me!" Stan said, sounding a little anguished. "Especially when I didn't do anything wrong, to know that whoever DID hurt my friend like that is still out there, rolling on the floor with laughter that he or she has gotten away with it scot-free, and on top of that, I can't even see my friend to check and see how he's doing..."

Kyle didn't want to admit it, but he was starting to believe in Stan. These were not the words and emotions of a cold-blooded monster. Stan seemed to genuinely care about Kenny, and the look on his face--that of a man on the verge of tears--told Kyle that his earlier words about not having the ability within him to harm his friend in such a way were, in fact, the absolute truth.

"I'm...I'm so sorry," Kyle said.

Stan turned away and hobbled over to the corner. He tried to hide what he was doing, but it would have been pretty obvious even to the most dense of people. He was sniffling to himself, his shoulders were shaking slightly, and Kyle knew for certain that he saw him reach for the tissue box on the table at least twice.

"I...think it would be best if I left," Kyle said softly. He got up and walked to the door. Before he walked out, he looked back at Stan. He was still standing there, crutches under his arms, crying softly to himself.


	8. Changing the Game

**A Note From Ben and P2: First of all, we'd like to sincerely apologize for the LONG wait on this one. Hurricanes, emotional problems, and scheduling conflicts were a real obstacle this time around. There shouldn't be any more wait times like this in the future, since hurricane season is over and we've got our scheduling problem pretty much resolved. That doesn't mean we're going to be pumping out one chapter a week, though. For those of you who think of us as remorseless writing machines, please go to your local pharmacy and get yourselves a large, extra-strength dose of reality.**

**Secondly, while hurricane season is over, it's about time for blizzard season up in P2's beloved Frozen North. This may result in the same outages Ben has had to deal with since we last put out a chapter - hopefully not, but it's already happened twice - and he does have work commitments and a bowl game to go to within the next month. That said, we're already planning what we're going to cram into the next installment, and hope this super-sized dose of _Stargazing_ is enough to tide you over through the holidays. In order: Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaah, and Happy New Year.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Eight - Changing the Game**

Stan had cried himself to sleep. No surprise there, really, even though it had only been two in the afternoon when the first tears had begun to flow. It was all for a good cause, of course, but if anyone was to see inside his head and see what he was dreaming, they would say otherwise.

_"Well now," Yeats said, walking into the cold steel interrogation room. He had a file folder in his hands, which he threw down on the table in front of him as he sat. Stan had no idea what was in it, but he'd watched enough Law & Order to know that it probably wasn't anything nice. "Wanna tell me where the hell you were last night?"_

_"I was, uh, at home," Stan replied._

_"You don't sound too sure of that," Yeats shot back._

_"Where else would I be?"_

_"Why don't you tell me?"_

_"I JUST DID!" Stan barked. "I was at home all night last night. I didn't go ANYWHERE. I didn't DO anything."_

_"Can anyone verify this?" Yeats asked. "Is there a credible witness who can place you at your residence last night, or are we to take your word for it? Because, I'm gonna tell you this: we have several witnesses who place you at the scene of one of the most brutal crimes I've ever seen in my years on the force. Considering I worked the Left Hand Killer case, that's saying something."_

_Stan couldn't believe his ears. One of the most brutal crimes he'd ever seen? When they'd made the arrest, they'd told him, as they were required to do, what he was being accused of. He'd known immediately that Kenny had been hurt and that he was being charged with it, but he'd never really been told the severity of the beating. If it was bad enough that a seasoned police officer had never seen anything like it, then what the hell had happened? What had been done to Kenny?_

_"I guess my mom..." Stan offered._

_"We're not interested in hearing from your mother!" Yeats snapped, cutting him off. "I said CREDIBLE witness. Why would I want your mommy to come in here and tell us what a good boy you are, how you'd never beat someone as senselessly and as mercilessly as you did!"_

_"Well what more can I do?" he replied, starting to panic. "The only people who were at my house that night were me and my parents! If you won't believe me and you won't believe THEM..."_

_Stan stopped and put his head in his hands. He couldn't believe this shit. Two days ago, everything had been fine. He'd been skateboarding, hanging out with his friends, and enjoying his teenage years to the fullest. In the forty-eight hours since then, his close friend had been beaten God-only-knew how badly, he'd been arrested, and now he was sitting in the cold, unforgiving interrogation room, facing an extremely pissed off cop who wanted answers he could not give._

_"Listen to me, scumbag," Yeats said, getting up and leaning over him to hiss in his ear. "There's no way out of this. All of the evidence says you did it, all of the witnesses say you did it, you've got no way to prove you DIDN'T do it, and no fucking lawyer you hire to try to defend your sorry ass is going to be able to change ANY of that. So why don't you just give us the confession we want and save us all a lot of time?"_

_"Confess to WHAT?" Stan cried. God, how had this happened to him?_

_"TO WHAT?" Yeats screamed at him, snatching up the file folder and pulling a bunch of photos out. He took the topmost image and held it in Stan's face. It was a picture of Kenny, lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit. He was naked from the waist down and it looked as though someone had beaten his testicles to a pulp. His left eye was completely disintegrated, and many of his teeth were missing. "TO THIS, YOU MONSTER! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!!"_

_Stan wanted to turn away. He felt his stomach began to churn, and he knew if he didn't close his eyes or look in another direction, he was going to lose his breakfast everywhere._

_"Oh God!" he moaned, feeling tears sting his eyes. Who would do such a thing to a sweet person like Kenny?_

_The door squeaked open and Officer Murphy stepped in. "Sarge, that's enough...look at the kid."_

_"You think you can do any better, Murphy!?" Yeats yelled at the junior cop. "You puked too when you saw that crime scene and you know it!"_

_"You think yelling at the kid is gonna crack him?" Murphy asked in reply. "He's almost in tears, for fuck's sake!"_

_"Oh great, a pussy," Yeats scoffed, stalking towards the door. "Feel free to take a crack. I need a coffee anyway." With that, he left, and Murphy replaced him opposite Stan._

_"Listen, son," the officer began, "I understand if you were just mad at him, maybe you were having an argument and you just snapped, it happens to the best of us...but it's still a crime, and I promise you don't want this to go to trial."_

_"Y-you don't understand," Stan said, choking back tears. "I-I didn't do that...I wouldn't ever do that to Kenny, I..."_

_"You what?" Murphy asked, offering Stan a tissue. Stan took it, unable to hold back the tears._

Stan then felt something wet on his forehead, wet and soft...he knew it wasn't tears, because they went down, and it wasn't his hair...

He opened his eyes and the scene changed from a dreary grey-colored interrogation room to a pair of boobs hanging over his face. Boobs contained in a shirt that looked strangely familiar to Stan, but he couldn't process.

"Wake up, Stanley," a concerned voice above him said, and then things clicked in Stan's mind.

"Ugh, Wendy, get your tits outta my face," he complained, raising an arm to shield his eyes, only to have it removed as Wendy playfully pressed herself against him.

"You know you wanna, Stanley," she teased, making a kissy-face at him. "There's nobody around...your blinds are shut...Kyle will never know."

"Noooo," Stan whined. "Grow a penis, then we'll talk about it." Wendy couldn't help herself, she tried to remain serious for about ten seconds before bursting out laughing.

"You're so adorably committed to your homosexuality, Stan!" she giggled, rolling off him and sitting down at the foot of the bed. "But I'll pass on getting a package. Unless you've got a strap-on around somewhere?"

Stan blanched.

"Um, yeah," he said awkwardly as he pulled back the covers and reached down to grab his pants off the floor. He took extra care as he did so to ensure the flap of his boxers was closed, just in case his boyhood decided to pop out for a quick hello. "What brings you here at this time of day?"

"This time of day?" Wendy laughed. "It's after two in the afternoon."

Stan did a double take and saw that it was nearly two thirty. How in the hell had he managed to sleep so long? Fuck, he'd slept for more than 24 hours! He'd wasted an entire day in bed dreaming of things he'd just as soon forget. A person in his position really didn't have days to waste laying around sleeping.

"Sorry, Wendy," he said, pulling on his pants. It was during times like these that he was grateful that he wore baggy pants. It would be much harder for him to get dressed if he wore those ass-tight cowboy jeans or something like that.

"Forget about it," she said, fetching a shirt from the closet and tossing it to him. "So, I saw Kyle on my way in."

Stan came to a dead stop and looked over at her.

"You did?"

"Yeah," she replied. "Nice guy. I can see why you like him so much."

"He talked to you?" Stan asked. "What did he say?"

"Oh, this and that," Wendy replied. "Mostly small talk. He asked me to say hi, though."

"Did you hit on him?" Stan asked, partly out of jealousy and partly because Wendy had seemed particularly promiscuous when she'd woken him up.

"What!? NO, why would I do that?" she asked, quite defensively in Stan's opinion.

"Because he's hot and Jewish and I'm not sure if he's gay or not?" Stan felt those to be three very good reasons why Wendy would be hitting on Kyle, and wasn't too pleased when she started laughing again.

"Stan, I didn't hit on him. Oh, and I'm pretty sure he's gay, by the way. He asked me about my clothes and the kind of conditioner I use, and not in a manner that suggests that he finds them attractive."

"Jesus," Stan said. "Did you two trade life stories or something while I was having nightmares?" he asked, starting to pout as he sat down in his desk chair. Wendy walked over to him and sat in his lap, playing with his hair.

"Not life stories, no. He said he'd dropped by before your mom left from her lunch break, and came up here to see if you were awake. He figured he should explain why he left yesterday. But when he got up here, you were tossing around and muttering something about how you didn't do it. What the hell were you dreaming about?"

"Yeats and Murphy interrogating me...you remember how bad that was for me, right?" Wendy nodded, and Stan went over what she'd said. "Wait, Kyle was up here, SAW I was having a nightmare, and didn't wake me up?"

"He said he didn't feel comfortable waking you up...the only person he's ever woken up from a nightmare is his little brother, and well, it's easier to comfort a family member than a strange kid next door. I told him I'd come up and take care of you."

"Oh," Stan said, a little disappointed. He'd missed out on body contact time with Kyle, after all.

"But he did tell me he came over for a reason. He's waiting downstairs, if you're calm enough."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm calm," Stan said, his heart fluttering and butterflies doing loops in his stomach. "Could you get him for me pretty please?"

"You're so gay sometimes," Wendy replied with a giggle, heading for the door. "But yes, I'll send him up."

* * *

"Hey, you're awake," Kyle said, easing into the room and shutting the door behind him.

"Yeah, I'm awake," Stan said. "Wendy said you wanted to talk to me about something?"

"It's actually kinda about what you were mumbling about in your nightmare...before you started sobbing."

"Wh-what was I mumbling?" Stan asked uncertainly. He shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other, unable to meet Kyle's eyes, though from embarrassment over talking in his sleep or simply from sheer boylust he couldn't tell.

"You said 'I'd never do that to Kenny'," Kyle replied, a little awkward himself. "I want you to know that after the talk we had, I believe that."

"Seriously?" Stan answered, his face brightening. He suddenly found it a lot easier to look up at Kyle.

"Yeah," the other said, "and...I want to help."

"Help me how?"

Kyle walked over to the computer desk and sat down in the swivel chair. He gave it a spin with his foot and in one fluid motion hit the power on the computer tower, clicked on the monitor, and grabbed a handful of M&Ms from the dish sitting by the mouse. He gave the chair another kick start and was soon looking at Stan again.

"Tell me," he said, "you've got a public defender, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Has he done anything to help you?"

"Help me?" Stan scoffed. "I haven't heard from him since the day of my arraignment. God only knows where that scumbag was while I was being interrogated!"

"Oh, he was probably busy making phone calls," Kyle said with a smirk, "making sure his room in hell will be warm enough. That's where all public defenders go, you know."

"That's where ALL attorneys go, in my opinion," Stan grumbled.

"Hey, watch it," Kyle growled. "My father is an attorney. I'm GOING to be an attorney." Stan turned red, wary of making Kyle mad at him and lose any chance of getting banged.

"Sorry."

"Don't blame you," Kyle said. "I hadn't told you. But that's really what I want to talk to you about. Do you really wanna face an assault case - is it just assault, or did they tack on attempted murder?

"Just assault," Stan said. "Since somebody in the police department told the DA whoever did this - they think me, you know - didn't have intent to kill, so not attempted murder."

"Kay. Do you really wanna face an assault case, looking at ten to twenty-five years in prison, with a public defender sitting next to you at the defense table?"

"What do you think?" Stan asked. "I'd try to defend myself, but I don't speak enough Latin." Kyle gave a small laugh.

"OK, anyway. My offer is, to try and get my Dad to take your case. I'd be helping him, since I'm kind of his de facto apprentice, but he's like the Jewish Johnnie Cochran."

"That good?" Stan asked, surprised. "What the fuck are you doing here, then? This is the ass-end of nowhere."

"Scenery," Kyle said, in a tone that told Stan to drop it. "But anyway, do you want me to try and get you a decent lawyer?"

"Sure," Stan said, "As long as he doesn't use the Chewbacca defense."

"Oh come on. That's Cochran's thing. You don't loot something like that just cause the guy's dead..." Kyle said. "But yeah, man, I'll try and get my dad to take your case."

"Don't take too long," Stan said quietly.

"What?" Kyle asked.

"I go to trial in two weeks," Stan said.

"Two weeks!?" Kyle exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

"Yeah two weeks! It's mid-July, my trial's scheduled to start at the end of the month and run the first week of August," Stan explained.

"Fuck!" Kyle explained, before calming down. "Wait. Wait, never mind, no big deal."

"No big deal?" Stan asked, confused.

"Yeah. We can just get a continuance," Kyle explained. "Since there'll be a new attorney representing you, he'll need time for his own discovery in the case. Should give us the time we need to clear you."

* * *

"Forget it, Kyle."

"Come on, dad!" Kyle exclaimed. "He's innocent!"

"I've heard that before," Gerald Broflovski said, his face buried in legal forms and books. He hadn't even given Kyle a glance. "Remember Robert?"

"Yeah, but..."

"And Greggie?"

"Yeah, but..."

"And _Francois_?"

Gerald made sure to add a sarcastic French accent for emphasis.

"DAD HE'S DIFFERENT!"

"How's he different?" Gerald challenged, finally looking up at his son angrily.

"He...he just is," Kyle muttered, suddenly unable to take his eyes from his sneakers.

Gerald looked at Kyle with a mixture of frustration and pity. One of the boy's major downfalls had always been his over-compassionate and, at time, far too loving nature. Kyle frequently became infatuated with people and then gave himself, heart and soul. Gerald wasn't sure where Kyle got such a trait, seeing that he himself was quite a reserved and judgmental person and Sheila was....well, she was a bitch, plain and simple.

"What did he do?"

"Nothing," Kyle said, the certainty back in his voice. Gerald looked at him, exasperated, and he backpedaled. "Well, the cops SAY he beat the shit out of his best friend with his skateboard, and put the guy in a coma, but his board doesn't have a speck of blood on it."

"You're asking me to defend another one of your crushes from an attempted murder rap?"

"No, it's assault. Beats the hell out of me why, but the DA only opted assault. Probably because they can't prove motive. I mean, from what I've seen, he may or may not have turned him down for a relationship, but there was sure as hell something beyond mere acknowledgment of each other's existence."

"Kyle...we've barely been in town a month. How in the hell could you find a bad boy already?"

"He's the neighbor kid."

"You mean the one your mother told you to not associate with?"

"Yeah...that one."

It was all Gerald could do not to plant his face onto his desk. "God damnit, Kyle..."

"So, do you think we can do something?" Kyle asked, shrugging this off altogether.

Gerald reclined back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his nose.

"I don't know," he said, furrowing his brow. "First we hear all these bad things about him, then he starts peeping through our windows with his telescope, then you start disobeying your mother the minute he steps into your life. We didn't raise you to be a hooligan or a hoodlum, Kyle, and we certainly don't want you associating with such people."

"Bu---"

"Wouldn't it be in our best interest," Gerald continued, raising his voice to be heard over his son's attempted interruption, "to not help this boy, let his fate play out as if we'd never moved here in the first place, and kill two birds with one stone? After all, Kyle, if he goes to prison, not only do I not have to help him, but we don't have to worry about him corrupting you ever again."

Kyle couldn't believe his ears. Had this actually come from his father, a man that he'd respected and revered his whole life? Could the great Gerald Broflovski, the person he wanted to be like more than anything else in the world, say such a despicable thing?

"You son of a bitch," he muttered in shock.

"What?" Gerald replied, not sure he'd heard right himself.

"You unbelievable son of a bitch," Kyle replied, louder. "You'd let an _innocent person_ go to prison just to ensure the pathetic little bubble you and mom live in, and have forced _me_ to live in, never gets disturbed?!"

"I'd--"

"YOU'D sit back and watch a nice guy like Stan be convicted of a hideous crime like this?" Kyle exclaimed, raising his own voice now. "Let me tell you what's going to happen if you do. This guy has been, according to what I've seen and heard, a model citizen his whole life. He's done nothing but try to help people and serve his community since he could walk! If he gets convicted of this crime, his reputation will be forever soiled with it. Nobody will ever see that nice guy anymore. They'll only see the guy who beat Kenny McCormick nearly to death and then sodomized him!"

Kyle marched forward and placed both his palms on the desk, then leaned forward angrily to stare angrily into his father's eyes.

"If you let that happen, knowing you're a damn good attorney and could have stopped it, not only will his blood be on your hands, but I'll never speak to you again. Not because he's some dreamboat that I'm suddenly in love with or anything stupid like that, but because he's a fucking nice person and shouldn't be facing something like this. If you're the kind of person who'd sit back and just watch, then I don't know why I ever looked up to you in the first place."

With that, Kyle marched out, leaving Gerald sitting there, stunned. When he and Sheila had decided early on how they were going to raise the boy, they had certainly never expected him to grow a spine. Now he had, and Gerald was utterly bewildered as to what to do next.

With Kyle essentially blackmailing him into taking this case, Gerald Broflovski did pretty much the only thing he could do. He opened up a browser tab and started Googleing Stan Marsh and his alleged crime.

* * *

Kyle was still fuming in his room an hour and a half later. The first thing he'd done was shut the blinds, so Stan couldn't see him having a moment of weakness. He'd gotten a baseball bat out of his closet and started swinging. He'd never hit anything, but every picture of his family in his room had been knocked down or knocked over by the swift breeze generated by Kyle's intentional misses.

How the fuck could his Dad be such a twit? Just because the last two guys Kyle had fallen for were now serving 25-to-life sentences in state penitentiary, he was trying to pretty much guarantee Stan would get convicted. Words really couldn't express how furious Kyle was at this point.

After knocking over the pictures, he was still angry as hell. He'd done push-ups, pull-ups, every calisthenic he could think of, and even after he exhausted himself, he was still raging mad. At that point, he had come to rest in the position he was in now: sitting on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, and seriously contemplating packing a bindle and running away. He wasn't quite sure where he would go; probably to Stan's for a night or two, and then...well, Kyle couldn't think that far ahead. Not when his judgment was clouded by anger.

His anger was in no way tempered by the knocks on his door. Three short raps. His father's knock.

"Go away," he said, not really wanting to talk to Gerald.

"Kyle, I need to talk to you," Gerald answered. "Can I come in?"

"Not unless you're going to take the case!"

"That's what I need to talk about."

"Are you taking it?" Kyle yelled at the door. Instead of answering, Gerald opened the door and walked inside.

"Is that a no?" Kyle asked with a glare, noting that Gerald held a rather large handful of printouts.

"This is everything I could find online about your friend," Gerald said, taking a seat next to Kyle on the bed, passing the printouts to his son and looking down at a yellow legal pad he'd taken notes on. "It's remarkably short on information about the victim - Kenny McCormick, according to the Westlaw court records, but that's all I could find on it. Just for the hell of it, I checked up on your friend's background. No priors, consistently Principal's List at school - meaning mostly As - and if you can believe it, he made Life Scout. I don't know if he's working on Eagle rank or not, but it does support your assertion that he's a decent person."

Kyle began looking through the printouts. The first three were write-ups about the crime, one from the local paper, one in the Denver Post, one in the Rocky Mountain News. They were limited in information, basically saying that a local teen was brutally beaten, the DA bragging about how they have the attacker on camera, and a police spokesperson saying they hoped to make an arrest sometime early in the week. The next few were information about Stan's scholastic and scouting achievements, the article about him making Life Scout showing a picture of him in his uniform, beaming with pride, which made Kyle smile softly in return.

"Please, Dad," Kyle said, almost begging. "You've gotta take this one. Just so I can see the tape they say they have."

Gerald didn't answer right away. He'd seen the look on his son's face, the look that suggested that Kyle might be getting a little more attached to this guy than he was letting on. Kyle always had that look when he was around that scumbag in San Francisco, the twenty-something year old that Gerald had agreed to help against his better judgement. He'd been rewarded in that situation by getting a call that the police had busted in this man's door and found Kyle naked in this man's embrace. Nothing had happened, thank Moses, but if the police had arrived even a few seconds later, that would not have been the case.

"Dad?" Kyle prompted.

"Be honest with me Kyle," Gerald said slowly. "Do you have feelings for this boy?"

"I, uh, dunno," Kyle replied, not looking his father in the eyes. "Don't see why that matters."

"It matters," Gerald explained. "I want to know what's suddenly gotten into you. Why do you care what happens to him? Don't feed me any of that 'because he's a nice guy and doesn't deserve it' crap that you threw at me in my study, either. Two days ago, this guy couldn't be trusted and you were always very leery whenever he was around or whenever you were in your room with the blinds open. Now he's the greatest thing since sliced bread?"

"I didn't say that!"

"You didn't have to! I saw the way you were looking at his photograph, and I didn't fail to notice how your eyes get all misty whenever you talk about him. For God's sake, Kyle, a change of opinion that severe is not only illogical, it's also dangerous!"

"Dangerous? How could it possibly--"

"Because I taught you to be dispassionate with the law! I taught you to always be neutral and never EVER get emotionally involved with people you're representing or are planning to represent or are even THINKING about POSSIBLY planning to represent!"

Kyle crossed his arms and looked away, fuming. He knew his father was right, of course. Two days ago, Stan Marsh HAD been complete filth in his opinion. WHy did he suddenly feel different around him, like they'd known each other for years? Why did he suddenly find himself wanting to make time between his chores to go see him? Why did he check his MSN constantly to see if he was on or had left an offline message? Was this real affection, puppy love, lust, or just a random burst of feeling that came from seeing someone he'd once considered nearly inhuman open up to him on a deeply personal level?

_Shit, how did this all get so confusing?_

"I don't mind helping another person who truly needs a helping hand, Kyle," Gerald said, getting to his feet, "but before I do, you need to figure out WHY you want me to help him. Is it because his fate truly means something to you, or is it because you've got a new playmate?"

With that, he got up and walked silently out of the room, leaving Kyle to sit there and chew over his words. They stung like hell, not because they were harsh or mean-spirited, but because they were so damn honest.

* * *

**Thus we end another installment. If this wasn't enough for you, go to Phoenix II's deviantART page (link available in his profile) to view the deleted alternate version of this chapter, which we found to be absolute rubbish yet amusing enough to merit posting SOMEWHERE. It should be up within twelve hours of this posting.**


	9. Saggitarius

**A Note From Ben and "P2": Sorry about the months-long wait that we promised wouldn't happen again. We thought our schedules were aligned, but then they weren't anymore and now we can only write together when we get lucky. And no, not like that. So...yeah, this took way longer than it should have, all things considered, but we finally got it done and hope the ends justify the means on this one.**

**Also, we are aware that this chapter is a bit, uh, "trippy". There's a scene in which Stan was originally supposed to yell "It needs more cowbell" over and over again. After the entire chapter was written, we decided that this didn't quite work the way we thought it would. We tried to change it up the best we could, but the surgery left a few scars. They aren't major, but just for the record we are aware that they are there.**

**Enjoy?  
****

* * *

Chapter Nine - Saggitarius **

Three days later, Stan was starting to get worried. He hadn't heard boo from Kyle since the (fucking adorable, delicious, sexy-as-all-Hell) boy had been over to propose Stan fire his Public Defender and hire his Dad, because Kyle could get him to take the case as a personal favor. Three days later, no Kyle, no new lawyer, no contact at all.

He'd tried calling Kyle three times that night, because he'd seen his shadow flitting about his room somewhat crazily at first, then a little more subdued. He'd never answered. Since then, Kyle's blinds had remained closed, and he had yet to reply to any of Stan's calls, text messages, e-mails, or IMs. And Stan had sent many of every one. He was one day away from writing Kyle a letter and sticking it in his mailbox.

_What could have gone wrong_,Stan wondered. Kyle had seemed so sure his lawyer-dad would take his case, so sure it was open-and-shut, you're innocent, I'll prove it in court, and we'll live happily ever after. SOMETHING must have gone wrong, or else Kyle would have called him with the good news by now. Maybe he would have even let Stan have a celebratory grope of one of the more desirable attributes on his body...

Staring out his window for the first time that minute, he looked at Kyle's window, his view blocked still by blinds. He squinted his eyes, as if that would activate a hidden power of X-ray vision and allow him to see through those damned blinds (and Kyle's clothes, for that matter), and maybe, just maybe, find out what was the matter. Sighing, he turned away, resolving to try (yet again) to resolve his problems by acing "Mississippi Queen" on Guitar Hero III. Guitar Hero was his one escape that WASN'T Tony Hawk, which he'd finally managed to rid himself of by selling it at the local GameStop for $3.15. He normally would have been outraged by such a con, but he'd been so sick of that game, he would have GIVEN it away just to get it out of his room.

_Mississippi Queen, if you know what I mean  
Mississippi Queen, she taught me everything  
Way down around Vicksburg, around Louisiana way_

_Lived a cajun lady, aboard the Mississippi Queen_

The opening verse of the song poured from his television, and he hit the notes flawlessly. Green, red, green, yellow; he'd played through this song so many times it was like second nature to him. For some reason, though, rather than getting boring, this made the song that much better. It was...soothing, in some way. After a bit, he even found himself showing off a bit. He held the guitar behind his head and then closed his eyes, still hitting each note precisely.

_I don't even need the game. I could do this song acoustically._

While his eyes were closed, he imagined himself standing on a stage in a big arena, thousands upon thousands of people screaming his name. Bombshells with big tits sit in the front row, shaking their stuff and throwing their bras at him, begging him to make love to them. He ignores them all and scans the front row for one person in particular. He finds him in the very center: Kyle. He looks down at the redhead and smiles, then beckons the boy to join him onstage. The girls go wild with jealousy, but Stan just pulls his NUMBER ONE FAN close, plants one hand around those perfect buttocks, and kisses him in front of everybody.

"This lady she asked me, If I would be her man," Stan sang, lost in his fantasy. "You know that I told her, I'd do what I can..."

"And that's when you remembered you like Jew ass," a voice sang out, not even attempting to stay with the melody. Stan opened his eyes, the mood ruined, and looked over at Cartman, who was staring at him with sadistic glee. He'd found the little performance quite amusing and would no doubt tell everyone who'd listen to him what a Backstreet Boy the crippled kid really was.

And with that, his four hundred note streak came to a screeching end.

"What the fuck do you want?" Stan asked, letting the rest of the notes just fly by on the screen.

"You to man up and stop lusting after Faggy McGaywad over there and for Wendy to respect mah authoritah, but both of you seem intent on ruining mah goddamn life," Cartman shot back.

_Oh, not **this** garbage again_, Stan's mind groaned with a roll of imaginary eyes.

"She's still giving you fits, eh?" Stan asked. "Good for her. Not like you two are even close to compatible anyway. I don't see why the hell you're trying to get in her pants, anyway."

"Umm, how about, because she's a hot chick, and I'm a straight teenage male?" Cartman asked. "Unlike you."

"Yeah, well she'd still rather my gay ass be in her pants than your fat straight ass," Stan replied. "They'd probably look terrible on me, but at least I'd fit in them!"

"Goddamnit I wasn't talking about actually trying to wear her fucking pants!" Cartman said, as if Stan didn't know he wasn't talking about Wendy's hip-hugging, ass-showing-off jeans. "I was talking about getting at what's inside them!"

"Same difference," Stan replied with a disinterested shrug. "She'd still fuck me before you, any day of the week. Girls like her don't go for assholes like you."

"Nice guys finish last," Cartman taunted.

"Yeah, we do," Stan admitted. "But the ladies like that. It means they get more orgasms out of the deal than the maybe one or two they get in the two minute drill with your type."

Cartman could not, for the life of him, come up with a reply to that.

"You suck," he finally said, frustrated.

"I would, if Kyle would get over here..." Stan said. "You're just not big enough to bother with, sorry."

"GOD WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?" Cartman shouted. "Jesus, seriously, just go over to that Jew's house and get it out of your system. I've got enough shit on my mind without having to think about you trying to suck my cock!"

"Like what, fatass?" Stan asked. "It's the middle of July, for fuck's sake."

"None of your gawddamn business, that's what!" Cartman replied. "I'll deal with it myself, fucknuts."

"Someone needs to go through anger management," Stan chided. "Now seriously, what did you want?"

"You to do something to make today entirely less boring. And what do I do but find you standing there pretending to be Slash, which, while amusing, does me absolutely no good."

Ignoring the slight on his music skills - which were actually quite good, but Stan didn't feel much like extending this argument - he replied "Well what do you want to do?"

"Throw rocks at Jew's bitch mom. She cussed me out in Hebrew from her porch for dropping the top layer of my triple-neapolitan ice cream cone into her fucking lawn by complete accident."

"Good for her," Stan said simply, turning off the XBOX.

"EY! You're supposed to take my side, not hers!" Cartman yelled.

"Well she's right. You shouldn't be eating so much damn ice cream. Besides, it'll kill the grass. It's lactose intolerant."

"Grass is not lactose intolerant!"

"Wikipedia says so," Stan said. "Look it up. I saw it on Colbert last night." Once again, Cartman was left flabbergasted.

"Well if you won't throw rocks at the fat bitch, and you don't have any games worth playing anymore, and you won't help me figure out how to get Wendy to fuck me, and you for some unknowable reason watch _Days_, I guess I'll just go watch the Hitler documentary on History. Enjoy being a 'rockstar'," Cartman said, ambling out of the room, leaving Stan once again with nothing to do.

"What an asshole," Stan muttered, selecting RESTART on the game menu. The audience had long since booed him offstage and declared him a total loser. "That was my best streak ever on this song and he fucked it up."

The opening notes of _Mississippi Queen _rang out again- a strange clock-clock-clocking cowbell sound that made him think of Christopher Walken in that stupid SNL skit.

"No, no," he proclaimed in his loudest and (in his opinion) best Walken impression. "You've got it all wrong. It needs more _cowbell_!"

* * *

Kyle was sitting alone by his window, staring at the blinds without really seeing them. Under normal circumstances, he would have just put the damn things up so he could at least have something to look out _at _while he was lost in thought, but that wouldn't work right now. He knew that Stan was over there, peeking out his own window every few seconds or so, waiting for him to open up. As cute as Stan's obsession could be at times, tonight it would only be an unnecessary distraction.

And speaking of unnecessary distractions, what the hell was that repetitive shouting?

"Tell that mean ocean!"

It was obnoxious, it was coming from Stan's room, and it was getting louder.

_Oh, God. Could he find nothing else to do with his time than pretend to be Christopher Walken?_

"PING PANG!"

Kyle sat and tried to ignore it for several minutes, but after five Christopher Walken quotes turned into twenty and twenty turned into thirty-five, he felt his eye beginning to twitch.

"A BULLET ALWAYS TELLS THE TRUTH!"

_If he doesn't stop with his bad impressions, I'm going to fucking snap. I swear I'm about ten seconds from chucking my mother's iron through his bedroom window.  
_  
"IT'S ALL JUST CORNFLAKES!!!"

_What the fuck!? _Kyle thought, hastily raising his blinds, opening his curtains and window. "What's all just cornflakes?"

"Oh!" Stan exclaimed in surprise. "It's this dessert bar," he said, holding it up for Kyle to see. "It's cornflakes held together by peanut butter."

"Well then isn't it peanut butter and cornflakes, since cornflakes aren't the only ingredient?" Kyle asked. Stan turned red in the face.

"...Shut up!" he managed, quite juvenile.

"Why the fuck are you screaming Christopher Walken quotes at the top of your lungs anyway?"

"Well, y'know...you haven't been around the last few days, there's only so much to do in the summer when you're more-or-less confined to your room..." Stan explained sheepishly.

"How am I supposed to think of ways to get my dad to help you when you're making that stupid racket?" Kyle said with an angry sigh.

"What do you mean?" Stan asked.

"Ugh," Kyle groaned. The cat was out of the bag now. He figured he might as well tell him. "My dad says he'll only agree to help you if I can think of a good reason why I want him to."

Stan looked confused, so Kyle continued. "There's a long story behind it that I don't really want to share with you across the windows. Think we can meet in your back yard?"

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Kyle was sitting in a lawn chair behind Stan's house, waiting for him to emerge. He extended the guy a little more patience than he would most people considering he had to maneuver his way down the stairs on those crutches. Still, fifteen minutes was more than a generous amount of time, even for a person with a busted leg. If he didn't show up in five more Kyle decided he just might scrap the whole thing and go home. This wasn't a story he was really all that eager to share anyway.

A quick look at his watch showed him it was quarter past nine. Stan had until...oh, to hell with it. He'd give him till nine-thirty. It's not like this was so bad, sitting out here on a warm summer night listening to the crickets and breathing in the aroma of the thick grass, still cooling after a long day of being baked by the sun.

"Sorry I'm late," Stan said, finally emerging from the sliding glass door holding a large box under his arm. Kyle didn't have to ask what was in it. Stan had been long coming down the stairs because he'd been trying to lug that big ass telescope with him.

"'Sokay," Kyle replied. "Pull up a chair and let's talk."

Stan dragged a chair off the patio to over by Kyle, and sat down, setting up the telescope at an angle so that he could look into it from his chair.

"You sure you've go enough time to go over this big long story?" he asked, turning to Kyle.

"Mom doesn't know I'm out here, so yes, plenty of time," Kyle answered. "And it is a big, long story. I kind of have a bad habit, you see," he said.

"Uh huh."

"Whenever my family moves into a new city, I ... end up falling for one of the baddest guys in town. Like, real thugs. Then whenever they go and get caught doing their thug stuff, I beg and plead with Dad to get them off, so I can make out with them and suck them off and do whatever else they want from me. Only trouble is, they always do really horrible stuff, the prosecution always has an open and shut case, and they end up running us out of town. We move to a new town, and I repeat it all over again. This has happened twice: San Francisco and Brooklyn," Kyle explained.  
_  
Well, that explained the preppy clothes and the brains_, Stan thought, but let Kyle continue. _Especially San Francisco_.

"Both times, the guys were mid-level criminals in drug gangs. One of them was the kind you'd never expect this from, 19 years old, sandy haired smart kid. Dropped out of Stanford because he couldn't afford tuition, started working with the gang, doing accounting and running front businesses and stuff. He found me at an office supply store, picking up stuff for Dad's practice. We started hanging out, discussing stuff, and within a few months he was teaching me how to kiss and make out with guys. Then, one night, a rival gang hit one of the front shops while he was there, he pulls a nine mil from the desk drawer, boom, headshot on all nine. Bloody mess, all caught on the shop's security camera. Dad won't let me give him an alibi, he gets put away for felony gun charges and nine murders. The _Examiner_ gave us hell throughout the trial, and at the end, we got out of Dodge, moved to Brooklyn."

_Nine headshots, and Kyle calls him a nerd..._

"In Brooklyn, it was a totally different story. The guy was 23, I was 14. He'd done three stints in Riker's for possession, but his gang wasn't into drugs as a main business. He was in MS-13, Latin guy. Not lousy downstairs, but not exactly valedictorian material. Dad didn't even know about this one until after he was arrested. I found him at school, interestingly enough. Janitor. Had access to cleaning supplies they needed to make rudimentary bombs, and could recruit the kiddies. One day, I was working on a chemistry project after school, long after anybody else had left, and he came in to raid the chemical supplies. I had a choice: join up with him and keep my mouth shut, or my project would literally blow up in my face. Obviously, no 14 year old kid wants to be blown up, so I took the first option," Kyle said.

Stan was horrified. Not just because of the threat to Kyle's life, but because of the nine-year age difference. That was fucking pedophile shit right there.

"He was the first guy I blew. It was disgusting, especially since he made me swallow, but after that, it wasn't that bad. As part of the gang, unofficially, since nobody really wanted a ginger kike rich white boy in MS-13, I helped him get his supplies together, and nod appreciatively when he passed along their success. This one ended when police raided his apartment after he blew up a sublet owned by a city council member. Caught us with my shirt off and his pants down in his bed, and they hauled him off and called my Dad. I had to beg him and grovel to defend this guy, but he got convicted and we got run out of town again. This time, my parents decided to move us to a small town in the Midwest, where they figured the baddest guy in town would be some anarchist douchebag who tags park benches and keys the occassional car. So we moved here, and...I found you. Dad doesn't trust me anymore with selecting cases, though. Everybody else has been guilty as sin, you must be too, and he's kinda tired of moving every year."

Stan wasn't sure what to say to any of that. He had chosen not to speak through any of it, even when things came to mind, because Kyle was gushing. He had been holding all of that in for quite some time and it seemed better just to keep quiet and let him get it all out. Even when the story got so emotionally troubling for him that he started shaking and trying to keep the quiver out of his voice, Stan made no move, not even to put a comforting arm over his shoulder, because he was afraid the sudden contact would jolt him or something and break his train of thought.

"That's heavy," he said at last, his throat feeling far too dry and sandy. "Fucking heavy."

"Yeah, it's fucking heavy," Kyle responded, looking moodily off into the night. "Now you see why I'm having trouble getting my dad to take your case?"

"Yeah."

"He wants me to give him one good reason why he _should _defend you, other than because I think you're innocent or because you're 'a nice guy who doesn't deserve it'. I have to give him some airtight reason for all of this to convince him that I'm not just asking because I'm falling for you."

Kyle had to resist the urge to slap a hand over his mouth. He didn't really mean to say that out loud, though after hearing his history he had a feeling Stan knew how he felt anyway.

"Well," Stan said, keeping his voice slow and deliberate. He hadn't missed anything, not in the subtle message in Kyle's story, nor in the little slip of the tongue he'd just had. He just didn't think it wise to let excitement creep into his voice at a time like this. It hadn't been easy for Kyle to come out here and spill his guts. "I think we should just step back and look at the situation. What...what _are _your reasons for wanting to help me?"

Kyle looked over at him, a sad and confused expression on his face.

"I've asked myself that a thousand times since my dad came to me," he sighed. "I've been over it a thousand times in my head. He thinks it's weird that I'd be so cautious of you one day then turn around and be crazy nuts about helping you the next."

"Isn't it?"

"I was only cautious of you," Kyle explained, "because I didn't know you. Think about how it looked from _my _point of view, Stan. I move in next door to you and all I hear about is what you've been accused of doing to Kenny. Then I catch you eyeballing me, followed shortly thereafter by that little telescope fiasco."

He gestured at the box in Stan's lap to emphasize his point, then went on.

"You gave me _nothing _to go on. I had no reason to disbelieve any of the stories. I just saw you as this thug like the others, a lowlife who'd get us kicked out of town again. You were only looking for a good time, maybe a last roll in the hay before you went to prison where that kind of thing isn't usually optional."

Kyle saw the hurt look on Stan's face and scowled back at him.

"And don't give me that 'I can't believe you said that' look," Kyle snapped, pointing a finger at him. "You did _nothing _to prove me wrong for the first couple of weeks."

Stan backed away from Kyle's finger, frightened and on the verge of tears himself.

"Kyle..." he said, barely audible, "I'm...I'm sorry."

Kyle lowered his finger and smiled at him.

"I said for the first couple of weeks, Stan. When you told me about Kenny, about what really happened, about how close you two were...something changed. I knew from that moment that the image everyone helped me paint of you was wrong. There was something _real _and _genuine _about your bond with him, and about the sorrow I heard in your voice when you talked about it. Suddenly I could see everything you'd done to get my attention in a different light. It wasn't obnoxious and perverse anymore. It was...cute."

"Cute? Hey, I may be gay, but I'm not a girl," Stan muttered. Kyle punched him in the arm.

"I'm trying to give you a compliment, dumbass," Kyle said. "But all that's done is make me fall for you faster...and it doesn't give me anything tangible I can give to Dad as proof you're not guilty. You're a nice guy, with very non-violent hobbies, but that doesn't preclude a single violent episode where you just got out of hand. I'd defend you if I could based on what I have now, but I need an alibi, something, _anything _concrete Dad could use to establish reasonable doubt with the prosecution's case."

"I was at home all that night," Stan said. "Playing my XBOX, chatting on MSN, stargazing..."

Kyle snapped his fingers. "That's it!" he exclaimed. "MSN! Do you save copies of your chats?"

"Yeah!" Stan exclaimed. "I was talking to Wendy and Cartman online, from like, seven until midnight."

"Stan, I think we're in business. I'll come over tomorrow and get copies of the files from your computer, and show 'em to Dad."

"Kay. Tomorrow afternoon I've got a doctor's appointment, maybe get this damn cast off, so you'll have to come over in the morning."

"Kay," Kyle replied, standing up from his chair.

"You're leaving?" Stan asked.

"I really should be getting back inside," Kyle replied. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Stay," Stan pleaded. "I want to show you a few things..."

Kyle gave him a weary look.

"You know my Mom, Stan..."

"I promise it won't take too long," Stan swore. "Just please don't run off again."

Kyle sighed and rolled his eyes. Stan was in many ways like a little boy. He could be so infuriating with his naivete, yet at the same time be so adorable with it that he melted Kyle's heart.

"What do you want to show me, Stan?"

Stan lurched to his feet as quickly as he could and led Kyle out into the grass. Once there, he pulled the telescope from the box and set it up on it's mount.

"Oh," Stan said, looking over at Kyle, "do me a favor?"

"What's that?"

"Don't do any Uranus jokes," he sneered. "'You're not gonna show me Uranus, are you', 'We should go on a couple of dates before you let me see Uranus', 'Uranus is Mycock's favorite planet', 'Uranus-'"

"I get it already!" Kyle said. "Jesus Christ, is thinking up Uranus jokes all you astronomy geeks do?"

"No, we just get pissed off when we hear them, and file them away to punch anybody who repeats them. Now be quiet, I'm trying to focus this thing," Stan said in a huff, returning his attention to altering the telescope's azimuth and focusing in on something. Kyle looked up, wondering what Stan could possibly be trying to show him.

"I can see the sky," Kyle told him. "What is it exactly you want to show me?"

"My favorite constellation," Stan replied. "There, got it. Have a peek," he told Kyle, grabbing the other boy's hand and pulling him over to the telescope. "Put your eye to the peephole there and tell me what you see."

Kyle did, hoping Stan hadn't found a group of stars that looked somewhat like a penis and termed it his favorite constellation. Instead, he saw the constellation Saggitarius.

"Isn't it nice? I'm thinking of getting a tattoo of Saggitarius. If I ever do get one, that is. It'll probably be of Saggitarius."

"A tattoo?" Kyle snorted, never taking his eye from the telescope. "That seems a little out of character for you."

"A little, I guess," Stan muttered self-consciously, scuffing his sneaker against the grass. "It was just one of those things. Like, I don't really get into body art and stuff. I wouldn't get a bleeding skull tattooed across my chest or anything, but if it's something important to me or has some kind of sentimental value, I'd proudly wear it on my body."

"Like what?" Kyle asked, looking up with great interest.

"Like..." Stan said, biting his bottom lip in hesitation. "Like Kenny's name."

"You'd wear Kenny's name?" Kyle asked, nearly overcome with awe. He'd never had a friend who would have done that for _him_.

"Absolutely," Stan replied. "I love him, Kyle. He's my best friend. If I can't do anything else to show the world how much he means to me, I'd do _that_."

Kyle walked from the telescope over to where Stan stood looking somberly up at the stars. He put his hand on his cheek and directed his face toward his own.

"You're an amazing person, Stan," he said. "You've definitely got the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met."

"You think so?"

"I _know _so," Kyle insisted. "I've never seen anyone so dedicated to a friend in my life. What you just said about Kenny was absolutely beautiful."

He was drawing Stan closer to him, inching in for a kiss. Stan let himself be drawn in, his breath quickening with excitement.

"Kyle, are you sure...?"

"Shh," Kyle said, closing the gap between them. Their lips connected and the rest of the world around them fell away in an instant. In that moment, Stan understood exactly what his purpose in life was: to make the boy in front of him happy. There was nothing in this world he would rather do, nor was there anything that would bring him so much pleasure.

Kyle had never been kissed like this before. He'd been with guys, but the kisses had always been wet, greedy, unfeeling. It always seemed like other guys just wanted to get through the kissing as fast as possible so they could rip off his clothes and have their way. This wasn't the case with Stan. Stan was a gentle kisser, willing to take his time and relish in the moment. He was amazing.

"Mmm," he moaned, wrapping his arms around Stan.

Stan did likewise and was about to draw him in closer when the bellowing of Sheila Broflovski brought the moment to a screeching halt.

"Kyle! Kyle, where are you?"

"Ugh," Kyle groaned, pulling away. "I have to go."

"Uuuh...uh huh..." was all Stan could say.

"I promise I won't stay gone too long this time," Kyle promised, blowing him one last kiss before hopping over the fence.

* * *

**Thus ends another exciting edition of _Stargazing_. We aren't sure when the next one will be up, and we've kinda learned not to promise any window of time, be it an estimate or a definite number. We're a couple of busy guys who also happen to enjoy being lazy.**


	10. Boots and Powdered Donuts

**Disclaimer: We don't own _Stayin' Alive_ by the Bee Gees. Duh.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Ten - Boots and Powdered Donuts**

The next day found Stan sitting in the passenger seat of his mom's 97 Ford Taurus, staring out the window as the Colorado landscape passed him by. He knew he should be a little more happy this morning. After all, not only was the doctor removing his cast and fitting him with a far more comfortable boot apparatus, but Kyle had come over that morning and printed out every chat log on his computer and was on his way to present them to one of the most prestigious lawyers in the country.

Still, he couldn't keep it out of his head that they were going toward _that _hospital, the one where Kenny had been lying in a comatose state all summer. It made him swallow hard just to think that his best friend was going to be just three floors above his head, shot through all over with wires and tubes, and he wouldn't be able to stop in even for a second and tell him how much he missed him.

"Stanley, honey," Sharon said, "are you okay?"

"Fine, mom," Stan said, not bothering to look over at her. "Just got a lot on my mind, that's all."

She gave him a sidelong glance, one that said she'd like to press the issue, but in the end she turned her eyes back on the road and let it go. It was hard for her to see her baby boy so independent. She still remembered with great fondness the late-night feedings, the diaper rash, the teething. To her, Stan would always be the little bright-eyed kid who stood bravely with his friends between the American and Canadian Army, not because there was something in it for him but because it was the right thing to do.

They came around a corner and saw the sign for the Hell's Pass turn off and Sharon flipped on her blinker. As she began moving toward the right lane, Stan reached down and flipped on the radio, not really caring what was on. It could be fucking country music for all that he gave a fuck as long as it helped him get his mind off of Kenny, off of the photos the cops had shoved in his face (the same photos that appeared nearly every night in his nightmares), and off the impending trial. It turned out to be KOSI 101, a light rock station from Denver.

_It's weird, _he thought as the sounds of the Bee Gees filled the car. _My entire future rests upon two people who wandered into my life less than two months ago. One of them I haven't even met yet._

"This song was really popular when I was a kid," Sharon said, trying to initiate some kind of conversation with her miserable son.

"Really?" Stan asked without enthusiasm.

"Oh, yes," she said, missing his deadpan voice entirely. "_Saturday Night Fever_. Those were good times, Stan. Everybody who was anybody was going to see that movie and then learning to do the moves just like John Travolta."

"John Travolta is a freak," Stan mumbled, remembering his days as the leader of Scientology.

Sharon gave her son a glare which he missed entirely, seeing as he was looking out the window. She let the conversation drop and decided not to initiate any others. She kept her silence for the rest of the trip to the hospital, as did her son. The only voices in the car were the Gibb brothers, squawking out pleas for help from thirty years in the past.  
**_  
Life's goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.  
Somebody help me, yeah._**

_Fuck off, disco douchebags_, Stan thought. _I've got somebody to help me...and I've got somebody to love me, too. I don't need you. When are they going to play some good music? I'm bored. Are we there yet?_

"Stanley honey, come on, we need to get you checked in so Dr. MacKoy can examine your leg," Sharon said, shaking Stan to bring him out of his moody introspective.

"OK," Stan said sullenly, grabbing his crutches and hopping out of the car, following his mom into the hospital and gazing sullenly at the directory while his mom filled out all the paperwork and handed over their insurance card and all that bureaucratic shit. The ICU, for whatever reason, was on the 7th floor of the hospital. Unfortunately, there was no chance of him sneaking up there. He'd be recognized instantly by the police goon the DA had posted outside Kenny's room, and an escape from one of Park County's finest on crutches was extremely unlikely.

"Stan!" Sharon called. "You're really distracted today..."

"Sorry Mom," Stan replied. "It's just...well..." he nodded his head towards the directory.

"Oh, Kenny?" Sharon replied. "I know you wish you could go see him, honey, but rules are rules..."

"But it sucks, Mom! I didn't even do it, and it's not fair!" Stan protested as his mom led him towards the elevator.

"I know, honey, but you don't want to get thrown in jail, do you?" Sharon asked.

"No, not really..." Stan admitted, as the doors opened to let them in. He jabbed the "4" button with a little more force than really necessary, fuming as the doors closed and the elevator began its ascent.

"Look on the bright side, Stanley. Your leg's hopefully well off enough by now they can take off the cast and get you one of those big walking boot things," Sharon said as they reached the fourth floor and left the elevator to head to radiology. Once again, Sharon did all the talking, while Stan just did as he was told. Taking the X-rays was not fun at all, and as they waited for Dr. MacKoy, Stan's attention was again drawn to the comatose boy on the seventh floor. While he was most interested at this point of clearing his name and staying out of jail himself, he also hoped that Kyle and his dad would be able to figure out who had put Kenny there.

_Somebody sure went to a lot of trouble to set me up, _he mused as he sat there waiting. _Somebody wanted to make sure the cops thought it was me and that I got put away for a long time. The question is why? Why would someone do that to me? Did I do something to piss someone off? Did I say no to the wrong old lady who needed a hand across the street? What the fuck did I do to bring this down on myself?_

The doctor walked back in carrying a stack of X-ray images in his hand.

"Good news, Stan," he said, pinning them up. Stan turned away. He'd always been a queasy boy with a weak stomach, and the idea of looking at picture of his own bones was one that made his insides lurch.

"What is it?" he asked, clutching his gut and looking longingly at the trash can. "Is my leg healed up?"

"Not completely," Doctor MacKoy replied, frowning at Stan's refusal to even glance at the images, "but enough that we can indeed take off that cast and fit you with a boot. I'm sorry, is there something wrong?"

"Stanley just has a weak stomach," Sharon replied, putting a hand on Stan's knee. "He gets sick so easy."

"I see," the doctor said, snapping off the light and pulling the images down. "Well, since you won't look I'll try and explain it to you the best I can. Your leg is well enough now that we can risk taking the cast off, but not enough that we can let it go unprotected."

"I understand," Stan said, looking sicker than ever. "Could you please stop now?"

Fifteen minutes later, MacKoy was there with a saw, ready to slice the cast off. Stan had to admit he was looking forward to it. He'd had this itchy spot way down inside that had been quite a bitch to reach, even with a stick, and it had been driving him crazy all summer. It had even caused a bit of trouble for him with his nosy-ass dad. He and Kyle had been in Stan's room, and Stan had been digging around inside with his special scratching stick, trying like crazy to relieve himself of the damned itching.

_"What are you doing?" Kyle asked._

_"Trying to fucking scratch this itch, what does it look like?" Stan replied._

_"Well you look damn stupid," Kyle replied, cocking an eyebrow at his gyrating._

_He watched Stan for another minute or two stabbing at himself and groaning in agony before he finally gave an exasperated sigh and snatched the stick from him._

_"Give me that!" Kyle barked. "You'll never reach it that way."_

_At this point, it is assumed that Randy walked down the hallway and overheard them speaking through the door, which lead to the misunderstanding that followed._

_"Well, if you're so much better at it," Stan replied, "__you stick it in!"_

_"First of all," Kyle shot back, "it'd work a lot better if the stick was lubricated. I could do it without it, but it'll probably hurt a lot."_

_"Well, I've got some lotion, but I don't know if I care or not whether it's slick or not, as long as it gets in deep enough to do the job!"_

_"That's not going to happen if you don't let me lube up!"_

_"Well then go get the lotion! It's over on my desk. Hurry up though, I need this, Kyle!" Stan exclaimed, rubbing the area on the cast to demonstrate how irritating the itch on his lower leg was._

_"Hold your horses. Patience will make the actual experience all the better."_

_"You're being a dick, Kyle, just get on with it!"_

_"Fine, fine," Kyle said, squirting a bit of lotion onto the scratching stick and rubbing a bit of it in the space between Stan's leg and the cast before sliding the stick in, easily reaching it down to where the itch was killing Stan. As Kyle started to scratch, Stan couldn't help but let out a pleasured moan._

_"Jesus, it can't feel that good, can it?" Kyle asked._

_"I've been wanting this all afternoon," Stan replied. "I'm just really happy you're taking care of it for me, OK?"_

_"OK, but you don't have to porn-moan," Kyle said with a grin. "It makes me feel dirty."_

_"But you're such a dirty boy," Stan replied, holding back a laugh while Kyle smacked him playfully in the back of the head._

_"I could always stop," he warned._

_"OK, OK, please don't stop!" Stan exclaimed, adopting a panicked look._

_"I thought that would do the trick," Kyle said, a smirk on his face. "Now relax, Stanley, and let me make you feel good."_

_Kyle kept scratching, keeping a gentle rhythm. Many times Stan couldn't restrain the moans of pleasure, but Kyle never said anything else about it._

_"You know," Kyle remarked after a minute, "I can see why you're having so much trouble. The hole you're dealing with is really tight."_

_"That's why I needed to get a small stick in there," Stan replied. "It's a lot easier to manage."_

_"It's not so small."_

_"Small enough."_

The sound of a motorized saw brought Stan back to the present. He looked down and saw MacKoy getting ready to saw through the layers of plaster protecting his injured leg. It occurred to him suddenly that he hadn't asked the doctor to remove it with care, so that he could at least keep some of the signatures in tact. One in particular, placed there just that morning, caught his eye:

**YOU ARE MY SHINING STAR  
-KYLE**.

That simple phrase scribbled with a blue Sharpie meant the world to him.

"MacKoy!" he cried, waving an arm at the doctor. MacKoy cut the power to the saw and looked at him.

"What is it, Stan?"

"Could you save the signatures?" Stan asked, sheepish.

The doctor gave a good-natured roll of his eyes and went back to work, taking care to cut around the various names and well-wishes. As MacKoy did this, Stan let the flashback he was enjoying so very much continue.

_After a couple minutes of scratching, Stan signaled for Kyle to stop._

_"Oooh, oh yes," he sighed, "that was great, Kyle."_

_Kyle pulled the stick out of the cast and looked at it with disgust. It was covered with lint and dirt._

_"Yuck, dude," Kyle sneered, "you really ought to keep that area a lot cleaner. Look at the stick. It's covered with shit!"_

_There was a retching sound from behind the door which caused them both to look up suddenly. There weren't sure at the time what caused the sound and wouldn't find out till much later that Randy had been standing there for quite some time._  
_  
That night, Randy had flat-out accused Stan of having illicit gay sex with Kyle right under his nose. Stan had gone firetruck red and tried to explain that Kyle was merely scratching an annoying itch that Stan himself couldn't reach._

_To which his father had responded "Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" before being whacked in the leg with a serving spoon by Sharon to shut him up. Kyle, later, had spent a good ten minutes laughing his ass off over the prospect._

_"Watch, dude, he's going to start buying you vibrators and shit," Kyle said in-between chuckles, giggles and peals of laughter._

_"Not funny, dude. I wouldn't know what the fuck to do with them."_

_"I could give you a demo," Kyle offered, making Stan pale. "Or you could give them to your girlfriend."_

_"What, Wendy?" Stan asked. Kyle nodded. "I don't even wanna think about that..."_

_"Well you'd have to do something with them...it's not exactly something you want to randomly pull out from under your bed while your packing to go to college."_

_"I could just throw it out the window," Stan suggested._

_"Nah. You don't want the cops issuing you a public nuisance citation for having a dildo forest on your lawn, do you?"_

_"God no, that'd be even more embarrassing than using them..."_

_"Oh don't be so uptight. They're not that terrible..."_

_"I don't wanna hear it!" Stan declared, covering his ears rather than listen to Kyle list the upsides of dildo and vibrator use. It wasn't a topic he was comfortable talking about._

"All done, Stan," Doctor MacKoy said.

Stan looked down and saw his leg for the first time in months. It was pale, filthy, atrophied, and more than a little smelly, but damn it it was good to have it out of that cast. The feel of fresh air on his skin was pure heaven.

"Thanks, doc," Stan said with a small smile.

"Don't thank me yet," the doctor replied, picking up the boot apparatus and sliding it onto Stan's leg. "The good news is this one is removable. You can take it off from time to time. In fact, you have to during physical therapy."

"PT?" Stan asked. "I need to go to PT? I thought that was just for people who were partially paralyzed and stuff."

"Oh, no," MacKoy said. "We usually require physical therapy for people who break their femurs, too. If there's any doubt why, take a look at how miserable your leg looks. I'm giving you six weeks of therapy, one day a week. You need to work the muscles back up again and, if you'll pardon the expression, learn to stand on your own two feet."

* * *

Stan stood in the hallway outside the women's restroom, where his mother had retreated after the long visit with the doctor. He didn't understand why she'd held it in all that time instead of just excusing herself for a few minutes. It wasn't like he was in any immediate danger or that she was really doing anything but lending moral support. He figured it had something to do with some bullshit maternal instinct that made her want to stick close to her injured offspring.

He read the directory on the wall across from him for what seemed like the thousandth time. His eyes kept drifting to the ICU listing. Floor Seven. Just three floors above his head. He knew that he shouldn't. He knew that the idea of spending the rest of the trial sitting in a jail cell without bond should scare him enough to even go outside and wait for his mother in the damn parking lot, as far from Kenny as he could get without actually crossing the street and leaving hospital property.

Still, it was tempting. His heart ached to find a way to sneak in and see his best friend and tell him how sorry he was that this happened to him, to tell him how much he loved him.

_Fuck, I must be crazy for having thoughts like this. I'll get busted. Besides, how could I get away from mom? She's smell a rat the minute I suggested going off on my own._

He tried to lessen the temptation by thinking of what Kyle would say if he was here. Phrases like "How many different kinds of stupid are you?" and "Did you damage your brain the day you broke your leg?" echoed through his mind. Kyle would probably tell him how selfish and careless it was to even consider it.

_But Kyle isn't here._

_That means...there's no reason for you not to. You just have to distract the cop. You can do that._

His brain was right. He could do that easily. It was a cop, for Christ's sake. It wouldn't be like trying to get one of those British soldiers outside Buckingham Palace to acknowledge your existence (which was damn near impossible).

Ignoring the possibility, however slight, that his mom would exit the bathroom just as he was making his move, Stan stalked off (well, as best he could) towards the stairwell. The elevator would be too obvious. He made his way up the six flights of stairs (hating the fact that the people who design stairs feel the necessity to require two sets of stairs to elevate you by one floor) and popped out on the seventh floor. Now he just needed his distraction. He looked hastily around for something - anything - that he could use to distract a cop. His eyes locked onto a vending machine. Specifically, the bottom row, where amidst the Pop-Tarts and cupcakes was a package of powdered mini-donuts.

Bingo.

Pulling a dollar bill out of his wallet, Stan headed over to the vending machine and made his purchase. Holding it in his left hand, he strode (awkwardly) towards the ICU. Poking his head around the corner, he saw the cop. He wore a Patrolman's outfit, plain and unadorned. He was fairly pudgy, and looked to be about in his mid-40s. Perfect.

He softly tossed the package of mini-donuts past the officer, grinning like an idiot when it landed next to the nurses' station, with a full coffeepot. The policeman fell for it, hook, line and sinker, heading off to pick up the donuts. Stan quietly snuck into Kenny's room, freezing when he saw how bad his friend actually looked. Pictures were one thing. The reality was entirely different. His golden hair, which Stan could remember running his fingers through after a hot kissing session, had been partially shaved. A gauze pad covered one eye. A tube emanated from his throat, connecting him to a respirator, which hissed every couple seconds, reminding Stan of Darth Vader. The heart monitor sounded out a steady _beep...beep...beep_ that Stan remembered from TV. That and the hiss of the air were the only evidence Stan could compile that Kenny was actually alive.

"Ken..." Stan said quietly, barely able to speak himself. "I...I don't know if you can hear this, but...I'm going to find out who did this to you. Me and this new boy, Kyle...he likes me like you didn't but it's OK, we're cool...we're going to get the police to figure out who hated you enough to put you through this. And when you get better, I'll introduce you. Fatass hates him, of course. He's Jewish, redhead. Got kind of a temper, but he's a good guy. Good sense of humor...."

He stopped in the middle of his rambling and gazed into Kenny's face. Despite all the bruises, the scars, and the missing teeth, he looked like he was at peace. Stan was pretty sure it had a lot to do with the coma and the drugs, but he didn't appear to be in any pain at all. In fact, he was so still and so silent, it was almost like he was...

_No, I'm not going there!_ he scolded himself, feeling the tears well up in his eyes at the very thought of Kenny's casket being lowered into the ground. _Kenny's gonna make it! He's gonna wake up and we're gonna be best friends again._

He sniffled and wiped at his face with the back of his hand. Despite Kenny's rejection of him, deep down inside Stan knew there were still strong feelings that went far beyond friendship. He'd shared so many firsts with him; first kiss, first sexual experience, first love.

Stan couldn't stop himself. He broke down and began wailing like a baby. He never stopped to think that the cop outside the door might hear him; he didn't care. He wanted his friend back. he grabbed Kenny's hand and kissed it over and over again, then jumped up from his seat and began kissing his face.

"Please don't leave," he begged. "You're everything to me."

Kenny remained silent. After a few moments of staring at him, wondering if those amazing blue eyes would ever open again, he put his head in his arms and wept. He wept like he never had before, until his whole body ached, then he wept again. He was so caught up in his grief that he never heard the door to the room open, nor did he sense that another person had entered the room and was standing right behind him, staring down at him.

* * *

Down in the lobby, Sharon Marsh was having kittens. She'd come out of the bathroom to find her son missing. There was no question in her mind where he'd gone. He was up on the seventh floor, trying to sneak in to see Kenny. She didn't even bother deceiving herself into thinking that _maybe _he'd gone to the cafeteria for a fruit cup or a soda.

"My son," she growled. "Lets his big heart do the thinking instead of his brain."

She wasn't sure what she was going to do. She couldn't alert security, because that would result in him getting caught for sure. Neither could she just walk up there and ask if Stan was up there, because then they'd start looking for him, again resulting in him getting caught. Should she just sit and wait and hope for the best? Should she call his cell phone?

_Call his cell phone and have it ring where some cop will hear it and turn around and look at him? That's a good idea._

Fuck, she was stumped.

"I swear if my son gets out of this alive, I'm going to kill him."

She sank down in a chair beside the front door, waiting to see how all of this would play out.

* * *

"Stan," a voice called out to him. He turned around in a panic, looking to see who recognized him. He calmed down only slightly when he saw that it was Kenny's mom.

"Mrs. M," he said. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be here, but..."

"I'm not going to rat you out, Stan," she said, walking over and sitting down next to him. She looked down at her son with more love that Stan had ever seen her express. He always remembered her as the dumpy woman who stayed with an alcoholic husband she couldn't stand. Her very image was stereotypical white trash, yet today...today she seemed a lot more like a loving mother and a lot less like a candidate for a guest on the _Jerry Springer Show_.

"You're...not gonna turn me in?" Stan asked, shocked.

"No," she replied, "I'm not."

There was a silence then, lasting maybe two seconds, as a single tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek.

"You know," she sniffled, "Kenny always loved you. He used to talk about you like you were his brother or something. There were some days when it seemed like he loved you more than his own family."

She took a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lit one up. Stan didn't have the heart to tell the grieving woman that smoking in the hospital was probably a criminal offense.

"The two of you thought you were so clever," she said. "Sneaking around and always locking yourselves in the bedroom. I knew, though. I saw it, even when Kenny's daddy didn't want to, refused to. You two were falling for each other, experimenting, doing things that ain't natural."

She took a big drag and exhaled, then looked over at Stan as if daring him to contradict her.

"You don't have to look so shocked," she said. "A momma sees things. She can look at her kids and she'll just know if he's runnin' with a gang or smokin' marijuana...or playing sex with his best friend. Besides, no matter how hard the two of you tried to cover your tracks, I could see it in the way you looked at him, all lovey-dovey, and the way he suddenly refused to meet your gaze. Guilty way he was actin' was like painting it on his forehead."

"Then...why the restraining order?"

"That fancy-talkin' lawyer pushed it on me. I believe you'd do somethin' like this about as much as I believe Stuart's actually gonna make somethin' of himself. I dunno who did, but I hope you kin prove it wasn't you, and that you can figure out who it was. I know you want that just as much as I do. Kenny deserves that." Another silence, during which they both heard the policeman return to his station.

"Shit!" Stan whispered. "How'm I gonna get out of here?"

"I'll take care of that...you just be ready to haul tail as soon as his back is turned, alright?" she instructed, wiping her eyes and finishing her cigarrete, flipping the butt into the plastic trashcan by the door. Stan winced at the smell of burning plastic garbage bag, but decided not to make that much of it, as he did need to get out of here, and Carol was offering him that opportunity.

She left the room first, and started up a chat with the cop. Stan thought he caught references to cigarettes and liquor, but he was paying more attention to the two adults' positioning than to what was being said. Finally, Mrs. M managed to get the cop's back turned to the door. Stan quietly opened the door, snuck out, and fled the ICU, the thumping sound of the boot covered by loud wails from Kenny's mom, and the officer was so caught up in trying to calm her down he couldn't have possibly noticed Stan anyway. He didn't feel safe, though, until he was in the elevator heading down to the first floor and his mom.

Fuck. His mom. He was going to be in trouble...


	11. Lawyers, Lunch, and Lucky Catches

**Chapter Eleven - Lawyers, Lunch, and Lucky Catches  
**  
Three days later, Stan was sitting next to Gerald Broflovski, Esq. at the defense table in the Park County Courthouse, Courtroom Two (the Hon. Judge Robert MacShane presiding). Ten feet away from him, the snivelling jackass of a prosecutor aiming to put him in prison was sitting with a smug look on his face.

"Mr. Broflovski, you're motioning today for a continuance?" the judge asked.

"That's correct, Your Honor," Gerald replied. "I have been the attorney of record on this case for less than a week, and with the trial set to begin next Monday, it would be impossible to prepare our defense in that amount of time. I require additional time for discovery, to go over the prosecution's evidence and witness statements, as well as secure my client's witnesses and prepare our legal strategy."

"Mr. Hawkins, does the prosecution object to defense counsel's motion?"

"Your Honor, we've been ready to go for the last three weeks. We can begin Monday as scheduled."

"With respect, Mr. Hawkins, the attorney who set that date is no longer on the case, and Monday simply does not work for me."

"I'm inclined to grant defense motion for a continuance," the judge replied. "Mr. Broflovski, how long do you think you would need to be able to present an effective defense?"

"Two weeks should suffice, Your Honor."

"Very well. Defense motion is granted, trial will commence two weeks from Monday. Previous attorney is to turn over evidence to defense counsel. We're adjourned." Judge MacShane slammed the gavel and left the courtroom. Hawkins and his assistant followed suit, while Gerald turned to address Stan and Kyle, who was sitting behind them in the gallery.

"We need to go by the Public Defender's office and pick up all the State's evidence. I'm going to need you to help carry it out, Kyle, and I need you to tell me where it is, Stan, because I have no idea."

"Actually, it's right across the street," Stan said. "That shabby looking one-story building that looks like it was built by the Soviets? That's it."

While Gerald walked across to take care of business, Stan and Kyle sat down at a picnic table clearly designated for smokers and waited for his return.

"Pretty exciting stuff, huh?" Kyle said, looking down into the rusted Folgers can bolted to the center of the table. It was filled with cigarette butts, Black and Mild filters, blunt papers, old matchbooks, and other assorted garbage that Kyle wouldn't touch with a pair of sterilized gloves on.

"Yeah, I guess so," Stan replied, resting his face in his palm. He hated courthouses and everything to do with the legal system. When it wasn't scaring the shit out of him, it was _boring _the shit out of him. He'd never acquired a taste for all that legal mumbo-jumbo and only enjoyed it when it was on _Law and Order_. That was because there it was put in a context that could at least be understood even by the most dim-witted of viewers. He considered Wolf Productions to be the television equivalent of _Law __School for Dummies_.

"Aww, don't worry, Stan," Kyle said with a smile. "You've got an alibi now. All we have to do is find some more concrete evidence to support it and you're as free as a bird."

"That's the problem," Stan countered. "How are we gonna do that? They've got video tapes of the beating, Kyle. _Video tapes_. What can we do the counter that? I certainly don't keep a camcorder in my room to record my every minute."

"Oh, you mean you're not into homemade porn?" Kyle said with a wink. "I was starting to get my hopes up about that."

"Seriously?" Stan asked. "That one-camera, badly-lit crap where it's on full zoom-out the whole damn time and you can't hardly even see what's going on? I prefer the shit with the corny plots."

"Oh come on...there's something...sweet about it," Kyle said. "Even if it's not all that good, it shows couples who want to let other people see how much they love each other."

"That's exhibitionism, Kyle. If I want people to watch us having sex, I'll invite 'em over, not put it online."

"Us?" Kyle asked, a playful glint in his eye. "What do you mean 'watch _us _having sex'? Who said we're going to bed any time soon?"

"Well, I...I mean..." Stan suddenly couldn't seem to finish a sentence and his face had gone beet red. "Uh...that is...it's..."

Kyle couldn't control himself and burst out laughing at this. Stan was so damn cute when he was tongue-tied like that. Kyle had seen it more than once in the short time they'd known each other and it never got old.

"'znotfunny..." Stan mumbled into his chest.

"Aww, don't be so hyper-sensitive," Kyle chided. "You know I'm just playing with you."

Stan looked up as if he were about to say something, but caught a glimpse over Kyle's shoulder of Gerald coming toward them and jumped to his feet. Kyle looked behind him and immediately followed suit.

"At ease, soldiers," Gerald joked as he walked up. He was carrying a large box under his arm that looked like it could hold all of the files from the O.J. Simpson trial. Stan couldn't believe it. How much evidence did they actually have against him? If that entire box was full of the ammunition the DA was planning to use against him, he felt he may as well get a shovel and start digging his grave now.

"Don't let it fool you," Kyle said. "It might look like a lot, but a lot of that is paper. Police reports, transcriptions of interviews, statements from family members."

"And the DA needed all of that?" Stan asked.

"No," Gerald replied, "but a common legal tactic is to give the opposing side absolutely _everything _on a case so they have to waste time wading through it to find what they're looking for. It's been used on _Law and Order _more than once."

"Is that legal?"

"Unfortunately," Kyle sighed as they started their trek back to the car. "The law says they have to provide Discovery. It doesn't say anything about separating it into neat little piles."

--

That afternoon found Stan sitting at home with only Cartman to keep him company. He would much rather have had Kyle there with him, especially since Kyle wouldn't have eaten up an entire loaf of bread making sandwiches, but that wasn't a luxury they could afford to indulge in. Kyle was busy helping his dad sort through the various documents and such that had accumulated since Kenny's beating earlier in the season.

"You know," Cartman said, "it's nice that we can just sit down together and have lunch. Just the two of us. No Jews, no gutter rats."

"Hey!" Stan objected, glaring over at him. "That _gutter rat _is my best friend."

"But it's okay to talk about the Jew?"

"No!!"

Cartman stared back at him over his sandwich, as if sizing him up. No emotion reflected in his eyes. There was no anger, no amusement, nothing. All Stan could see were two beady little orbs, calculating, plotting, scheming. It struck Stan then that there was more to Cartman than he realized, something he didn't like that until this moment he hadn't even realized was there. He'd always considered the fat asshole to be a _sort of _friend, someone he could hang out with or go to the movies with from time to time. Now he wasn't sure that was even true anymore.

"Well, aren't you just a killjoy?" he asked. "Not letting me rip on anybody anymore, are you? You're fuckin' boring, Stan. Craig's 10 times cooler than you, and not just because he'll let me make as many cracks about Kenny and that fag Jew next door to you. He's so damn awesome, he doesn't have any sing-a-long video games, all shooters. The bloodier the better. He's so damn awesome, he can make his fatass guinea pig jump onto a trampoline and bounce for 10 minutes. He's so damn awesome, he doesn't watch _Days of our _FUCKING _Lives_! Such a fuckin' awesome guy, don't you think?"

Stan was flummoxed. Why was Cartman all excited about the prospects of hanging out with Craig all of a sudden? He'd always taken Stan's side when Stan was frustrated about the bedeviling Mr. Tucker, every time he did anything to piss off Stan. Unless _absolutely everything _he'd thought he'd known about his fat friend was an act...

As if reading his thoughts, Cartman softened up and smiled at him. It was a slick smile, like the one you'd expect to get from the car salesman trying to hustle you.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Stan?" he asked. "You're acting like you've never seen me before."

"Get out of my house, fat boy," Stan growled. Cartman's expression slipped for all of two seconds before the smile was back on.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked. "Unless you're going to tell me you're out of tea and ham?"

"No, I mean get the fuck out of my house. You're disgusting."

"Fahn, see if I testify as a character witness for YOU, cripple! Maybe I'll go down to the DA and volunteer to tell them in excruciating detail just how violent of a personality you have, how you get it from your drunk of a father, and you just don't know any better than to beat up defenseless kids any chance you get!"

Any other day, perhaps this would have cowed Stan. But he was feeling abnormally confident today.

"Fine," he said coolly. "I'll just have my lawyer subpoena your permanent record and go after you about all the 'defenseless kids' you've beaten up over the years. It's in the double digits now, isn't it Cartman? Get out of my house, you fat slug!"

The smile was definitely gone from Cartman's face. It was replaced by a disapproving scowl, but he moved to do as Stan asked, giant sandwich in his hands.

"Leave the sandwich, too." The piggish boy glared at him, put set the sandwich on the table before knocking it apart with his wrist.

"Oops, did I do that?" he asked, simpering at Stan before waddling out of the house.

--

After cleaning up the mess Cartman had made in the kitchen, Stan had made his way upstairs and spent the rest of the afternoon working on what he would ask Mr. Broflovski to do to help defend him. Since he didn't doubt for a moment that Cartman probably would volunteer to commit perjury for the DA, he put down as Number One on the list to have his permanent record subpoenad. After that, the list included to a note to mention that Stan had been a student mediator at his school, to cast doubt on the prosecutor's assertion that he was a swing-first, ask-questions-later kind of guy.

All throughout his list-making, though, his mind kept dragging him forcibly back to the "conversation" he'd had with Cartman in the kitchen. Specifically, all the stuff he'd said about Craig. And Stan couldn't figure out why. Just two bits of it really stood out: "All shooters. The bloodier the better." But even still, Stan couldn't put the pieces together. So what if Craig liked shooter video games? So did he, kinda. So did most teenage boys...but probably not Kyle. He probably played "Phoenix Wright, the Game" where he had to lawya it up like crazy and at the end, for bonus points, smash a chair over the prosecutor's head. Just the idea of such a boring game brought a smile to Stan's face, because he could picture Kyle with his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated on winning the level.

_But why has Cartman suddenly become such bosom buddies with Craig?  
__  
_Damn it, even Kyle's uberJew cuteness wasn't enough to keep that question from pecking at his brain. He'd questioned Cartman about it back when he'd first seen them together, and Cartman had sworn fealty, had promised him up and down and backwards that he was only _using _Craig. He'd realized then that nothing Cartman said could be trusted, but he'd never really stopped to really consider the possibility that the fat slob was really pulling a Snape. Could he have been a triple agent this whole time, pretending to spy on his mortal enemy while really spying on him for Craig?

God, just trying to figure that out was enough to make his eyes begin to cross, like trying to make sense out of a time travel grandfather paradox. Whatever was going on, Stan realized that he had to cut off all communication with Cartman from this day forward. It just wasn't worth the risk. He had enough problems without helping Craig to do God-only-knew-what. Knowing that sorry little shithead, it could be anything from setting his lawn on fire to finding some way to give false testimony against him at the trial.

_The demented little bastard would do that, too, just to get one over on me. He's always seen me as a competitor in everything. That's why he came over here after he lost his virginity and threw it back in my face, like I give a shit if he gets his dick wet._

The phone rang, mercifully cutting him off in mid-thought before they could become any more fleshed out. There had already been a revolting image forming in his head of Craig naked in bed with some cheap little floozy. She was gliding up and down his two inch shaft, trying to get some kind of pleasure out of it...

"HELLO?" he barked, doing his best to obliterate even the shadow of such an image.

"Nice to hear from you too," Kyle said on the other end. "A real ray of sunshine on the cloudiest of days, aren't you?"

"Sorry, Kyle," Stan replied. "It's been a rough day."

"I can tell," Kyle said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Need some company?"

"Are you offering?"

"No," Kyle responded in a thick WELL DUH tone of voice. "I thought I'd fork over a hunk of Jewcash to some escort service and let _them _entertain you for awhile."

"Make sure you ask for a redhead," Stan responded with a laugh. "I wanna at least try and pretend my escort is you."

Stan walked to the window and looked over at Kyle's bedroom, which as usual was obscured by closed shades.

"You're a riot, you know that?" Kyle said. "A laugh a minute."

"Sure," Stan said with a smirk. "Everyone knows that."

"And modest too!" Kyle replied, then in a serious tone: "Look, I'm gonna be over there in about five minutes, okay? I've got something to show you."

"Well, if you insist on showing them off," Stan replied, "I'll go ahead and get the camera out."

Kyle hung up on him without so much as another word, causing Stan to burst into hysterics. He was suddenly feeling much better.

---

"Now I want you to watch this video with me," Kyle said, putting a DVD disc into Stan's XBox.

"What is it?" Stan asked.

"The surveillance video taken the night of Kenny's beating," Kyle replied as if commenting on the weather.

"I don't wanna see that shit!" Stan cried, outraged. "How did you even get it anyway?"

"Snuck it out of my dad's office," Kyle replied, "and you need to watch this with me, Stan. I know you don't want to. Moses knows I sympathize with you, because I've seen it and it's _brutal_, but this can't be avoided. There's something about it that rubs me the wrong way and I have this feeling that if you see it, you'll be able to tell me what it is."

Stan wasn't sure what Kyle meant by that, and told him so.

"I _mean_," Kyle explained. "That there's some element of the video that seems off, like it was edited with some kind of Hollywood software or something. I can't put my finger on what it is, no matter how impartial a view I try to take with it."

Stan felt panic begin to grip him. The thought of watching Kenny being beaten down was not really something he wanted to watch. But if Kyle said it was important, he'd try to get through it, no matter how nauseous it made him.

"Here, I'll fast forward it to the part I've got a problem with," Kyle said, noticing Stan's discomfort at the prospect of watching the whole thing, grabbing the controller and manipulating it like an expert, so that black and white footage sped past.

"It's right at the end here," Kyle says, stopping it at a point after Kenny had fallen to the ground. Stan could still see the blood trickling out onto the pavement, and he felt his stomach unsettle as Kyle resumed the tape.

"Here, look," he said, pointing at the top edge of the frame, where 'Stan' then came back into the view of the camera, and flipped off Kenny with both hands, proceeded to the ATM, doing some business there and withdrawing what looked to be a good amount of cash before flipping Kenny off again once his way back out of frame.

"What about it," Stan asked, as Kyle rewound it and replayed it from the same spot.

"The flipping of the bird," Kyle explained. "It doesn't seem right to me."

"I don't get it," Stan said. "So the dude wanted to add insult to injury, so what?"

"No, Stan, it looks familiar to me but I can't place it. Flip me off."

"What?"

"Just flip me off, damnit!" Kyle said, and his tone was so angry that Stan automatically complied, sticking his finger in the air.

"I knew it! The arm position's not right. You flip off with your arm straight up, this guy's flipping off with his arms straight out and his wrists! Do you know anybody who flips people off like that?"

It clicked for Stan then. He did indeed know somebody who flipped people of like that. That same person hated Kenny, and had acquired a fairly high-end skateboard soon after the beating.

"Yes, yes I do," Stan said coolly, "and we need to talk to your Dad," he added, grabbing his notebook - though part of him knew that he wasn't going to need it after the next couple of days - just as Kyle's cell phone rang. The redhead checked his phone and answered.

"Dad?"

"_Where the hell are you with that tape!?_" Stan could here Mr. Broflovski yelling at his son quite clearly.

"Over at Stan's," Kyle replied calmly. "There was something about it that didn't rub right with me, and he thinks he's figured it out."

"_Figured _WHAT _out, Kyle!?_"

"The identity of the real attacker," Kyle said, feeling rather vindicated. "We're on our way back over with it, he'll tell you when we get there. Bye!" Kyle hung up the phone then and there before Mr. Broflovski could reply.

"Wha-?" Stan asked as Kyle grabbed him and started pulling him toward the door. "Shouldn't you get the DVD out first?" Kyle stopped dead in his tracks.

"Oops."


End file.
